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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
The distant Champions League music still echoing softly around the stadium.
The warmth of the Spanish air.
The ache in his legs.
The distant Champions League music still echoing softly around the stadium.
Francesco stood there for another few seconds longer than most of his teammates.
Not because he wanted attention.
Actually the opposite.
He just wanted to feel the moment properly before football inevitably dragged everyone toward the next obligation.
Because that was the strange thing about elite football.
Even beautiful nights ended quickly.
Already UEFA staff moved briskly around the pitch collecting equipment.
Already television crews chased players for interviews.
Already security staff gestured politely toward the tunnel entrances while stadium lights shifted slightly brighter overhead.
The machine never stopped moving.
Walker eventually bumped lightly into Francesco's shoulder while still applauding supporters.
"You planning to live here now?"
"Considering it."
"Fair weather fan."
"Correct."
Walker grinned before jogging ahead toward the tunnel where Sánchez was already arguing passionately with a camera operator about something absolutely unnecessary.
Probably offside decisions from thirty minutes earlier.
Some people relaxed normally.
Alexis Sánchez relaxed through conflict.
Francesco followed the squad toward the tunnel entrance while applause continued raining down from the away supporters above.
The Champions League anthem played faintly again somewhere through the stadium speakers while players disappeared gradually beneath the concrete structure leading underground.
And immediately the atmosphere changed.
The noise softened.
Floodlights vanished behind them.
Now it became footsteps echoing through corridors again.
Heavy breathing.
The smell of sweat, grass, and damp tape lingering in the air.
The glamorous side of football always disappeared fastest inside tunnels.
Walcott walked ahead carrying his boots loosely by the laces while Giroud replayed his missed header dramatically for anyone willing to listen.
"I hit that perfectly."
Walker snorted.
"You hit Rico perfectly."
"It was a good save."
"Sure Olivier."
Behind them Cazorla was still smiling.
Not big emotional celebrations.
Just quiet happiness.
Playing football in Spain again clearly meant something to him tonight.
Several Sevilla players exchanged respectful handshakes with Arsenal's squad while walking back inside.
Nasri paused briefly beside Wenger near the corridor entrance.
The former Arsenal midfielder smiled faintly.
"Very strong team now."
Wenger nodded with genuine warmth.
"You played well too."
No bitterness.
No awkwardness.
Just mutual respect between people who shared history together.
Francesco noticed those little moments more nowadays.
Football relationships mattered.
Even after transfers.
Even after years apart.
Eventually Arsenal reached the dressing room area fully.
Staff members already waited outside with recovery drinks while security kept journalists behind designated barriers nearby.
The moment the dressing room doors shut behind them, the energy changed instantly.
Relief.
Exhaustion.
Adrenaline finally beginning to fade.
And naturally that meant chaos returned almost immediately.
Walker launched himself dramatically across a bench.
"My legs are gone."
"You ran for ninety minutes," Robertson replied while peeling tape from his socks. "Shocking development."
"Thank you for the medical analysis."
Nearby Sánchez continued pacing around still visibly annoyed he had not scored.
"I should have had one."
"You won three-nil away in Spain," Cazorla reminded him.
"Yes. But also I should have scored."
Hopeless honestly.
Kanté sat quietly unlacing his boots with the calm expression of a man who looked capable of playing another full match immediately afterward.
Francesco stared at him suspiciously.
"You aren't even tired."
Kanté looked genuinely confused by the accusation.
"I am tired."
"No you aren't."
The midfielder smiled shyly again.
Tiny smile.
Same as always.
Meanwhile Wenger entered the dressing room several moments later carrying that composed expression he always wore after important wins.
Not overly emotional.
Never theatrical.
But undeniably satisfied.
Conversations lowered immediately.
The manager looked around the room slowly.
Then nodded once.
"Excellent performance."
Simple.
But meaningful coming from him.
"We controlled the match from the beginning."
He glanced briefly toward the tactical board still hanging nearby before continuing.
"Good discipline defensively. Intelligent possession. Very mature."
Several players exchanged tired smiles quietly.
Praise from Wenger always sounded understated.
That was part of why it mattered.
Then naturally came the corrections because Arsène Wenger physically could not experience football without simultaneously identifying improvements.
"Though our spacing after transitions around the seventieth minute became slightly too stretched."
Walker covered his face dramatically.
"He found one."
"Always," Cazorla whispered beside him.
Wenger ignored them completely.
"Against stronger opposition that becomes dangerous."
Then after another pause his expression softened slightly again.
"But overall… very good."
That final line carried enough satisfaction for everyone.
The room relaxed instantly afterward.
Some players applauded lightly against benches.
Others simply leaned back breathing heavily while staff distributed recovery shakes around the room.
Francesco sat quietly for a moment letting the exhaustion settle properly into his muscles now that the match was over.
That pleasant heaviness after winning important games.
Not draining.
Earned.
Beside him Koscielny nudged his shoulder.
"You looked sharp tonight."
"So did you."
The French defender shrugged modestly.
"Van Dijk makes life easier."
Fair statement honestly.
The Dutchman sat nearby calmly removing ankle tape while Mustafi animatedly recreated one defensive sequence from the second half using water bottles as tactical markers.
Giroud looked deeply invested in the explanation despite clearly not understanding half of it.
Eventually players began filtering toward the showers one by one.
And immediately the dressing room transformed into the usual post-match disorder.
Music started playing softly from someone's speaker.
Steam filled the air gradually.
Conversations overlapped everywhere.
Walker singing badly somewhere in the background against humanity's wishes.
The showers themselves felt almost painfully good after ninety intense minutes under the Spanish heat and floodlights.
Hot water pounded against Francesco's shoulders while exhaustion finally settled fully into his body.
He closed his eyes briefly.
And for maybe the first time in weeks, there was absolutely nothing heavy sitting in his chest.
No tension.
No fear.
No emotional static constantly humming beneath everything.
Just tiredness.
Simple honest tiredness after football.
It felt incredible.
When he eventually returned toward his locker wearing only training shorts with damp hair falling messily across his forehead, most of the squad had already started changing into Arsenal travel jumpsuits.
Dark navy.
Club crest stitched neatly across the chest.
Comfort replacing competition now.
Robertson sat half-dressed scrolling through his phone while laughing.
"Oh this is dangerous."
"What?"
"The internet discovered Xhaka's goal."
"Pray for Sevilla's goalkeeper."
Walker immediately grabbed the phone.
"No no no show me."
Seconds later he nearly collapsed laughing.
"They edited explosions behind the ball already!"
"Fair."
Across the room Xhaka shook his head while trying unsuccessfully not to smile.
"You people are idiots."
"Correct," Walcott answered immediately.
The atmosphere inside the dressing room stayed wonderfully loose after that.
Victories always changed energy.
Everything became lighter.
Jokes landed easier.
Fatigue felt easier carrying.
Even recovery staff looked happier moving around the room.
At one point Sánchez finally sat down beside Francesco while pulling on his jumpsuit jacket.
Still restless somehow.
"You know what annoys me?"
"Impossible to guess."
"The keeper guessed my volley."
Francesco stared at him.
"You're genuinely upset about this."
"Yes."
"You're insane."
"Maybe."
Probably honestly.
Several minutes later Wenger re-entered the room briefly while most players finished dressing.
The manager exchanged a few quiet words with Boro Primorac near the entrance before his eyes moved around the room searching for someone.
Eventually they landed on Francesco.
"Francesco."
"Yeah?"
"I would like you to join me for the press conference."
Several teammates immediately reacted.
Walker pointed dramatically.
"Starboy duties."
"Behave," Wenger replied automatically.
The right-back grinned unapologetically.
Francesco stood while zipping his jacket fully.
"Of course."
Wenger nodded once.
"We leave in five minutes."
Then the manager disappeared again as quickly as he'd entered.
Almost immediately Sánchez looked offended.
"Why him and not me?"
"Because you'd threaten journalists after mentioning missed chances."
"I would not."
Everyone nearby looked at him silently.
Sánchez sighed.
"Okay maybe a little."
The room dissolved into laughter again.
Francesco shook his head while gathering a few remaining things from his locker.
Press conferences honestly never stopped feeling strange.
Footballers spent ninety minutes physically exhausting themselves under enormous pressure only to immediately sit beneath bright lights answering philosophical questions about formations and momentum from people wearing suits.
The contrast always felt surreal.
Still, Wenger choosing him tonight meant something.
The manager rarely selected players randomly for UEFA media duties.
Eventually Francesco headed out alongside Wenger through the stadium corridors toward the press conference area deeper inside Sánchez-Pizjuán.
The walk there felt quieter than before.
Most supporters had already begun leaving the stadium above them now.
Only distant crowd noise echoed faintly through concrete walls while UEFA staff hurried through hallways carrying equipment and folders.
Wenger walked beside him calmly with hands tucked inside his coat pockets.
For a while neither spoke.
Then eventually the manager glanced sideways slightly.
"You handled yourself very well tonight."
Francesco nodded.
"Thank you."
"Not only technically."
That made him look over.
Wenger's expression remained thoughtful.
"You looked emotionally free again."
The words landed quietly.
Because Wenger noticed everything.
Always had.
Francesco exhaled softly.
"Feels that way."
The older man nodded once.
"That is important."
No long emotional speech followed afterward.
That wasn't Wenger's style.
But the meaning sat there anyway.
And strangely, hearing it acknowledged so simply mattered more than some dramatic conversation probably would have.
They continued walking through another corridor where framed photographs of Sevilla legends lined the walls beneath soft lighting.
European stadiums always carried history differently.
You could feel decades inside them.
Eventually UEFA staff guided them toward the media room entrance where noise already buzzed loudly behind the doors.
Reporters.
Cameras.
Translators.
That familiar organized chaos.
One official adjusted his headset before smiling politely.
"Ready, gentlemen?"
Wenger gave a calm nod.
Francesco rolled his shoulders once instinctively.
Then they stepped inside.
Instantly camera flashes exploded across the room.
The press conference area was packed.
Rows of journalists filled nearly every seat while television cameras lined the back wall beneath bright UEFA Champions League branding.
Microphones covered the long desk waiting at the front of the room.
And the moment Wenger and Francesco entered together, applause unexpectedly broke out across sections of the media room.
Not massive theatrical cheering.
Just genuine acknowledgment.
Respect.
Several reporters congratulated them openly while they took their seats.
"Congratulations, Arsène."
"Fantastic performance tonight."
"Well done Francesco."
"Through to the knockout stage."
The atmosphere felt lighter than usual press conferences after tense European matches.
Arsenal had dominated.
Everyone in the room knew it.
Wenger settled calmly into his chair while adjusting the microphone slightly.
Francesco sat beside him beneath the bright lights trying not to squint directly into the cameras.
The moderator opened proceedings first.
"Good evening. Congratulations to Arsenal Football Club on qualification to the Champions League knockout stage."
More camera flashes.
Then questions began immediately.
A Spanish journalist stood first.
"Mister Wenger, congratulations. Arsenal looked completely in control tonight. How do you feel after securing qualification in this manner?"
Wenger folded his hands together thoughtfully before answering.
"I am very pleased with the maturity of the performance."
His voice carried that familiar calm authority immediately filling the room.
"We played with intelligence, discipline, and good balance emotionally. Away matches in Europe are always difficult, especially here."
He gestured lightly toward the stadium outside.
"Sevilla have quality and strong support. But we controlled important moments well tonight."
Several reporters nodded while typing rapidly.
Another journalist spoke next.
"Francesco, after your recent difficult period personally, how satisfying was this performance and qualification tonight?"
The room quieted slightly.
Not uncomfortable.
Just attentive.
Francesco leaned slightly toward the microphone.
"It feels good."
Simple at first.
Honest.
"We worked very hard for this result."
Then after a brief pause he continued more thoughtfully.
"And personally… I'm enjoying football again."
That drew softer reactions around the room.
Not dramatic sympathy.
Just understanding.
He smiled faintly afterward.
"Nights like this remind you why you love playing."
Several cameras flashed immediately.
Nearby Wenger glanced toward him briefly with quiet approval before looking back toward the reporters.
Another question followed quickly.
"Mister Wenger, Arsenal now go through to the Round of 16 again. Is there any opponent you would prefer to face?"
A few journalists laughed lightly because managers always hated that question.
Wenger smiled politely.
"In the Champions League there are no easy opponents."
Classic answer.
But he continued anyway.
"If you reach the knockout stages, every team has quality. We will focus on ourselves first."
Then with a faintly amused expression:
"Though preferably somebody less difficult than Barcelona for once."
The entire room laughed openly at that.
Even Francesco.
Fair request honestly.
Another reporter pointed toward him afterward.
"Francesco, same question for you. Which club would you want in the Round of 16?"
He leaned back slightly pretending deep tactical thought.
"Not Barcelona."
Louder laughter this time.
Even Wenger shook his head smiling beside him.
Francesco continued afterward.
"Honestly though, you want these matches."
He glanced briefly around the room.
"The Champions League is supposed to be difficult. Big nights are why players dream about this competition."
Then with a grin:
"But maybe someone with slightly colder weather next time. Spain is too comfortable."
A Spanish journalist clutched his chest dramatically.
"Betrayal."
"That free kick from Cazorla melted us," another reporter joked.
The atmosphere relaxed further after that.
Questions continued flowing.
About Xhaka's goal.
About Arsenal's defensive organization.
About Cazorla returning to Spain.
About Kanté apparently being capable of covering every blade of grass in Europe simultaneously.
One English reporter eventually asked Wenger directly:
"Do you believe this Arsenal side is ready to genuinely compete for the Champions League title?"
The room sharpened immediately at the question.
Because that was always the real conversation underneath everything.
Wenger grew quieter for a moment before answering carefully.
"We have quality."
Then another pause.
"But talent alone is not enough to win this competition."
His eyes moved briefly toward Francesco and then back toward the room.
"You need maturity. Resilience. Togetherness. The ability to suffer in difficult moments."
The room stayed silent listening.
"We are growing in those areas."
Not arrogance.
Not promises.
But belief existed there clearly.
Francesco could feel it too.
This Arsenal side genuinely feared nobody anymore.
Another reporter asked Francesco whether the squad now expected to win every major match after recent performances.
He smiled slightly.
"In football you can never expect victories."
Then after thinking briefly:
"But we trust each other a lot right now."
That felt like the real answer.
Not tactics.
Not statistics.
Trust.
The room gradually settled into a softer rhythm afterward as questions became lighter and more conversational.
The room gradually settled into a softer rhythm afterward as questions became lighter and more conversational.
One Italian journalist asked Francesco whether Arsenal's dressing room really joked as much as people claimed.
Walker immediately shouted from somewhere outside the media room corridor before security closed the doors fully.
"Yes!"
The entire press room dissolved into laughter.
Even Wenger rubbed briefly at his forehead like a man permanently exhausted by his own football club.
"Unfortunately," the manager answered dryly, "that is accurate."
More laughter followed.
The atmosphere had completely transformed now from the sharper intensity earlier in the night.
Victories always softened media rooms.
Especially dominant victories.
Questions became less confrontational.
More curious.
A French reporter asked Wenger about Cazorla's influence on younger players.
A Spanish journalist praised Arsenal's positional structure.
Someone else asked whether Xhaka practiced long shots often in training.
At that one Francesco actually laughed openly.
"Too often."
Xhaka's reputation clearly transcended borders.
Eventually the moderator glanced toward the remaining raised hands before announcing the final two questions.
A reporter near the back stood quickly.
"Mister Wenger, what pleased you most tonight? The attacking quality or the defensive control?"
Wenger leaned back slightly in his chair.
"The balance."
Simple answer.
Then he expanded carefully.
"In modern football, balance is everything. You cannot only attack. You cannot only defend. Tonight we understood the rhythm of the match well."
His voice carried that professor-like calm again.
"When to accelerate. When to slow the game. When to press. When to keep possession."
Then with a small glance toward Francesco beside him:
"The players showed maturity."
That word again.
Maturity.
It clearly mattered enormously to Wenger lately.
The final question came from an English journalist who looked toward Francesco.
"You mentioned earlier that you're enjoying football again. Do performances like tonight feel personally important after everything that happened recently?"
The room quieted once more.
Not intrusive.
Just attentive.
Francesco paused for a second before answering.
"Yeah."
Honest again.
No rehearsed media training nonsense.
"Because football is supposed to feel alive."
Several reporters stopped typing for a moment listening.
"For a while, I think I was carrying too much mentally."
He shrugged lightly.
"But nights like this help."
Then after a brief pause:
"You remember who you are again."
The silence afterward felt different.
Not pity.
Respect.
Even Wenger looked at him briefly with that thoughtful expression again before the moderator officially ended the conference.
"Thank you everyone."
Instantly chairs scraped against floors while reporters began talking among themselves and camera crews started dismantling equipment.
Another burst of flashes followed as Wenger and Francesco stood from the desk together.
Several journalists called out congratulations again while others already hurried toward exits chasing deadlines.
Football never stopped moving.
Not even for reflection.
As they stepped away from the media platform, Wenger adjusted the cuff of his coat calmly.
"You handled yourself very well."
Francesco looked over.
"Felt easier tonight."
"Yes," Wenger replied quietly. "I could tell."
They exited through a side corridor away from the main media traffic while UEFA staff guided them back toward the dressing room section beneath the stadium.
The hallways felt noticeably emptier now.
Most post-match chaos had already shifted elsewhere.
Only scattered staff members remained moving equipment cases or speaking into radios while distant sounds from stadium cleanup echoed faintly through the concrete structure.
For several moments neither Wenger nor Francesco spoke again.
And strangely, the silence felt comfortable.
Not awkward.
Just tired.
The good kind of tired shared after successful nights.
Eventually Wenger broke it softly.
"You know," he said while walking, "many players believe confidence comes only from goals."
Francesco glanced sideways.
"But?"
"But confidence also comes from peace."
The older man kept his eyes forward.
"When your mind is calm, football becomes simple again."
That line settled deeply somewhere inside Francesco.
Because it was true.
Recently every touch, every mistake, every moment had felt heavier than it should have.
Tonight hadn't.
Tonight football had simply felt like football again.
Wenger gave a faint nod toward him.
"You looked free."
Then, almost immediately after saying something unexpectedly meaningful, the manager returned fully to being himself.
"Though your pressing angle around minute fifty-two could still improve slightly."
Francesco stared at him.
"There he is."
Wenger smiled.
Tiny smile.
Rare enough to matter.
By the time they reached the dressing room corridor again, noise had returned fully.
Not stadium noise anymore.
Arsenal noise.
Laughter echoed through the hallway before they even reached the door.
Walker's voice somehow carried through solid walls.
"THAT WAS ABSOLUTELY A CROSS."
"YOU SHOT," Robertson yelled back instantly.
"It became a cross."
"That is not how football works."
Wenger opened the dressing room door without reacting at all, clearly immune to the madness after decades managing footballers.
Inside, most of the squad had fully transitioned into travel mode already.
Bags packed.
Jumpsuits zipped.
Recovery drinks half-finished everywhere.
Music still played softly through a portable speaker near the corner of the room while staff moved around collecting equipment.
The atmosphere carried that specific post-win exhaustion where everyone looked simultaneously dead tired and incredibly happy.
Walker noticed them first.
"Ah! The media celebrities return."
Francesco grabbed a towel and threw it directly at him.
Walker caught it triumphantly.
"Violence against the working class."
"You haven't worked a day in your life."
"Cruel."
Nearby Sánchez looked up immediately.
"How many questions about my missed volley?"
"Only seven."
The Chilean looked offended.
"It was difficult technique."
"It landed in another postcode," Walcott replied.
Sánchez pointed threateningly at him.
"You run fast. That does not make you funny."
"Incorrect," Walker interrupted. "It helps massively."
The dressing room dissolved into laughter again.
Even Wenger looked dangerously close to smiling before choosing professionalism instead.
Mostly.
Francesco dropped back into his seat beside his bag while pulling out his phone briefly.
Messages flooded the screen instantly.
Friends.
Former teammates.
Family.
Social media notifications completely out of control already.
Football moved frighteningly fast online now.
Xhaka's goal had probably become international military footage by this point.
One notification stood out near the top though.
Leah.
Proud of you ❤️
Simple.
But somehow it grounded him immediately.
He smiled faintly to himself before locking the phone again.
Across the room Wenger gathered the players briefly before departure.
Nothing dramatic.
No long speech necessary after a night like this.
"Recovery tonight is important," the manager reminded calmly.
"We have another match very soon."
Typical Wenger.
Three-nil away in the Champions League and the man already mentally lived inside the next tactical preparation.
Still, the squad listened carefully.
Because that mentality was part of why Arsenal looked so strong now.
Consistency came from standards.
Not emotion.
"Hydrate properly," Wenger continued. "Sleep well."
Then after a pause:
"And enjoy the victory."
That final part earned approving reactions around the room.
Walker pointed dramatically.
"He said enjoy things. Record this historically."
Wenger ignored him with the patience of a man who had survived decades of football dressing rooms.
Eventually players began gathering bags and heading out toward the underground parking area where the team bus waited.
The corridors beneath Sánchez-Pizjuán felt almost deserted now compared to the frenzy earlier.
Only scattered stadium workers remained cleaning sections while security staff guided Arsenal's group efficiently through restricted access hallways.
The adrenaline of competition had faded fully now, leaving behind only fatigue and satisfaction.
Francesco walked beside Cazorla while the little Spaniard scrolled through messages on his phone.
"You have about twelve thousand notifications," Francesco observed.
"Spain remembers me fondly."
"Your free kick probably caused emotional damage."
Cazorla grinned.
"It was nice, no?"
"Show-off."
"Correct."
Ahead of them Giroud and Walcott debated whether Rico's save from the late header counted as world-class or merely "annoyingly competent."
Behind them Mustafi continued discussing defensive spacing with absolutely anyone trapped near him long enough.
Footballers after victories became oddly childlike sometimes.
Loose.
Happy.
Uncomplicated.
When Arsenal finally emerged into the underground parking section, the team bus already waited with engine humming softly beneath harsh fluorescent lighting.
Police escorts stood nearby preparing departure routes while several club staff members loaded final equipment cases underneath.
The moment players started boarding, Walker immediately claimed the back section of the bus like hostile territory.
"Elite seats only."
Robertson climbed aboard right behind him.
"Then why are you there?"
"Painful."
Francesco shook his head while stepping onto the bus himself.
The atmosphere inside carried that perfect late-night mixture of exhaustion and post-win satisfaction.
Some players already leaned back with headphones on.
Others quietly scrolled through phones reviewing highlights or messages.
A few still buzzed with leftover adrenaline talking animatedly across seats.
Francesco settled into a seat near the middle while stretching his legs carefully.
His body felt heavy now.
Not injured.
Not strained.
Just fully used.
That deep fatigue only football created.
A few moments later Wenger boarded last after speaking briefly with staff outside.
The manager moved calmly down the aisle checking something with the coaching staff before finally sitting near the front beside Boro Primorac.
Almost immediately the bus began moving.
Slowly at first.
Then out from beneath the stadium structure entirely.
Seville greeted them again through tinted windows.
Warm night air.
Streetlights reflecting across narrow roads.
Supporters still gathered outside bars watching post-match analysis on televisions glowing through open windows.
Some Sevilla fans noticed the Arsenal bus passing and applauded respectfully despite defeat.
Others lifted scarves or phones recording videos as the convoy rolled through the city.
Champions League nights lingered long after full-time.
Inside the bus the lights stayed dim.
Conversation softened gradually.
Fatigue winning finally.
Walker still somehow maintained energy though.
"Tell me honestly," he said loudly across several seats, "is Xhaka legally allowed to hit a football that hard?"
Xhaka didn't even look up from his phone.
"Yes."
"Terrifying answer."
Sánchez leaned over from nearby.
"The goalkeeper moved before the shot."
"Alexis," Walcott sighed, "please let the volley go."
"No."
Impossible man honestly.
Francesco rested his head briefly against the cool window while the city slid past outside.
And for the first time in weeks, his thoughts felt quiet.
Not empty.
Peaceful.
There was a difference.
No constant replaying of tension.
No subconscious anticipation of disaster.
Just the lingering glow of football done well.
He watched scooters weave through late-night traffic while supporters filled outdoor cafés beneath strings of warm lights.
Spain really did feel cinematic at night.
Eventually conversation around the bus faded further as players drifted into tired silence.
A few listened to music.
Some slept immediately.
Kanté somehow watched more tactical clips on a tablet because apparently the man's soul existed entirely inside football analysis.
Francesco stared at him.
"You're studying right now?"
Kanté glanced up innocently.
"Only little bit."
"Psychotic behavior."
The midfielder laughed softly.
Tiny laugh again.
The hotel eventually appeared ahead glowing warmly against the quiet streets.
Not overly luxurious from the outside.
But elegant.
Comfortable.
Exactly the kind of place elite clubs preferred for European trips.
As the bus pulled into the private entrance area, staff members waited near the doors while security maintained barriers against lingering journalists outside.
Players stood slowly gathering bags with the sluggish movements of people whose bodies had finally remembered exhaustion existed.
Walker stretched dramatically in the aisle.
"If I sit any longer my spine becomes decorative."
"You already move like an old man," Robertson informed him.
"Rude Scottish behavior."
"Traditional Scottish behavior."
One by one Arsenal's squad filtered off the bus and into the hotel lobby.
The atmosphere there remained quiet and professional despite the late hour.
Hotel staff greeted players politely while several guests sitting near the lounge area openly stared at the arriving squad trying not to look too obvious about it.
Hard task honestly.
A Champions League team walking into your hotel after midnight tended to attract attention.
Wenger paused briefly near the elevators speaking quietly with fitness staff regarding tomorrow's recovery schedule before dismissing the players for the night.
"Breakfast at nine-thirty," he reminded calmly.
Collective groans immediately followed.
Walker looked horrified.
"Cruel scheduling."
"You are professional athletes," Wenger answered.
"Allegedly."
The manager finally smiled fully at that.
Tiny moment.
But genuine.
Then everyone dispersed gradually toward separate elevators and hallways.
Goodnights echoed around the lobby.
"Night lads."
"Recovery tomorrow."
"Good match."
"See you in the morning."
Football teams really did become strange temporary families during long seasons.
Shared exhaustion bonded people quickly.
Francesco eventually reached his floor and walked quietly down the carpeted hallway toward his room while the adrenaline drained further from his body with every step.
The hotel felt almost unnaturally peaceful after the noise of the stadium.
Soft lighting.
Muted air conditioning.
Distant elevator chimes.
Nothing else.
When he finally stepped inside his room, silence greeted him fully for the first time all night.
And honestly?
It felt good.
The room still carried traces of the afternoon sunlight trapped faintly inside warm curtains while city lights glowed softly beyond the balcony doors overlooking Seville.
Francesco dropped his bag near the chair before loosening his jumpsuit jacket slowly.
Every muscle complained now.
The delayed soreness after competition arriving properly.
He moved toward the balcony briefly and slid the door open.
Warm night air drifted inside immediately carrying distant city noise with it.
Scooters.
Laughter somewhere below.
Music echoing faintly from bars still alive long after midnight.
Seville never really seemed to sleep completely.
Francesco leaned lightly against the railing for a moment looking out across the glowing city.
Then finally pulled out his phone.
Leah answered almost immediately.
"There he is."
Her voice alone made him smile instantly.
"You stayed awake."
"Obviously."
He could hear television noise faintly behind her.
Probably post-match coverage still replaying Arsenal goals endlessly.
"You looked happy tonight," she said softly.
The words caught him slightly off guard.
Not because they were surprising.
Because they were accurate.
Francesco leaned back against the balcony rail.
"Yeah."
A small pause followed.
Then:
"I actually was."
On the other end he heard her smile before she even spoke again.
"Good."
Simple word.
But it landed warmly.
For a while they just talked quietly about normal things.
The match.
Walker apparently screaming during celebrations.
Xhaka potentially committing crimes against physics with his goal.
Leah laughing about Sánchez still being annoyed over not scoring despite winning comfortably.
"He's unbelievable," she said.
"He's genuinely upset."
"I know. He texted the group chat about it."
Francesco laughed tiredly.
"That sounds right."
Eventually the conversation softened naturally into calmer territory.
The kind that only happened late at night after emotionally full days.
Leah asked how he was really feeling.
Not football answers.
Real answers.
Francesco looked out across Seville again while thinking about it properly.
"Tired," he admitted.
Then after a pause:
"But lighter."
The honesty sat quietly between them.
Leah understood immediately.
"I can hear it."
Another small silence followed.
Comfortable silence.
The best kind.
"I'm proud of you," she said eventually.
Not because of the goals.
Not because of headlines.
He could tell.
Francesco closed his eyes briefly.
"Thank you."
Below the balcony, the city continued glowing softly beneath the Spanish night while somewhere far away supporters probably still sang football songs through crowded streets.
But up here everything felt still.
Calm.
Finally calm.
They stayed on the phone longer than either intended.
Talking about random nonsense eventually.
Reality shows.
Bad commentary.
Walker's complete inability to behave like a normal adult human being.
Little things.
Human things.
And by the time the conversation finally ended, Francesco realized something quietly important.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn't emotionally bracing himself before trying to sleep.
No checking security cameras.
No tension wound tight beneath his ribs.
No fear waiting in silence.
Just exhaustion.
Peaceful exhaustion.
"Goodnight," Leah whispered softly before hanging up.
"Goodnight."
The room fell quiet again afterward.
Francesco set his phone down beside the bed before turning off most of the lights, leaving only the soft glow from the city outside filtering faintly through the curtains.
______________________________________________
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: 22
Goal: 29
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