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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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.
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.
For a while he just stood there.
Listening.
Not to anything important.
Just the world existing normally beyond the balcony glass.
Cars passing somewhere below.
Muted laughter drifting upward from late-night streets.
Air conditioning humming softly through the room.
Ordinary sounds.
Safe sounds.
The kind his body had finally stopped interpreting as danger.
That realization still surprised him sometimes.
How exhausting fear truly was once it started leaving.
Because you only fully noticed the weight after setting it down.
Eventually exhaustion won completely.
Francesco collapsed backward onto the bed with a long exhale, muscles aching deeply after ninety minutes under Champions League intensity.
His legs felt heavy.
His shoulders sore.
But it was good pain.
Earned pain.
Football pain.
Within minutes sleep pulled him under properly for the first time in weeks.
No restless waking.
No sudden tension.
Just darkness and rest.
And football moved forward again.
Because it always did.
The next morning arrived too quickly despite the quality of sleep.
Sunlight slipped through the hotel curtains in soft gold lines while somewhere down the hallway players already moved toward breakfast and recovery sessions.
Francesco woke slowly, blinking against the light before realizing immediately something felt different.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Quiet.
His mind felt quiet.
He lay there staring at the ceiling for several seconds before finally laughing softly to himself.
Maybe Wenger had been right.
Confidence really did come from peace sometimes.
Downstairs the hotel restaurant carried the familiar post-European atmosphere of elite football teams functioning on controlled fatigue.
Recovery shakes.
Coffee.
Tired legs everywhere.
Walker looked personally betrayed by breakfast existing before noon.
"This should be illegal after away wins."
"You say that every morning," Robertson replied while stealing fruit from Walker's plate.
"Because mornings are oppressive."
Nearby Sánchez already watched clips from the match on his phone while muttering in Spanish about the missed volley again.
Cazorla looked over at Francesco and sighed dramatically.
"He has discussed this shot for twelve straight hours."
"It was difficult technique," Sánchez defended himself immediately.
"It hit orbit," Walcott answered.
Kanté meanwhile somehow looked fully refreshed already.
Francesco narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him across the table.
"You recovered overnight."
"I slept."
"That cannot possibly be enough."
The Frenchman only smiled shyly again.
Hopelessly wholesome human being honestly.
Recovery training later that morning stayed light.
Stretching.
Mobility work.
Pool recovery.
Wenger monitored everything carefully from the edge of the session while speaking quietly with fitness staff.
Even after dominant victories, the manager's focus never drifted far from preparation for the next challenge.
That mentality infected the squad now too.
Nobody celebrated too long.
Nobody mentally relaxed.
Because the season never allowed it.
By afternoon Arsenal flew back toward London.
And slowly the rhythm of domestic football swallowed the glow of European nights again.
Training resumed fully within days.
Premier League preparation.
Video analysis.
Tactical drills.
Burnley away next.
Not glamorous.
Not cinematic.
Cold northern England instead of warm Spanish nights.
That was football too.
One moment you played beneath Champions League floodlights in beautiful European cities.
The next you prepared for ninety violent minutes at Turf Moor while rain attacked horizontally.
Still, Wenger treated both occasions with identical seriousness.
Maybe that was why Arsenal looked so relentless lately.
Nothing became "just another match."
Every game mattered.
The flight back from Spain had barely settled into memory before the squad already stood on the training pitch at London Colney beneath cold gray skies again.
The contrast felt almost offensive honestly.
Walker stared upward while freezing wind whipped across the pitch.
"We left civilization for this."
"You're from England," Robertson reminded him.
"Unfortunately."
Francesco pulled training sleeves tighter over his hands while Wenger organized possession drills nearby with the intensity of a military strategist preparing for invasion.
Burnley away always carried specific challenges.
Physicality.
Compact defending.
Second balls.
Direct football.
Not beautiful.
But dangerous if disrespected.
"Quick circulation," Wenger instructed sharply during training.
"Do not allow the match to become emotional."
Too late probably.
Turf Moor specialized in emotional football.
The days passed quickly afterward in that familiar blur only elite footballers truly understood.
Train.
Recover.
Travel.
Compete.
Repeat.
Yet beneath the constant movement, Francesco noticed something steadily returning inside himself.
Enjoyment.
Not only during goals or victories.
In small moments too.
Laughing during rondos.
Talking nonsense with teammates before sessions.
Feeling adrenaline before matches without fear attached to it.
Healing never arrived dramatically.
It rebuilt quietly through routine.
Burnley away arrived beneath heavy northern clouds and cold wind sweeping across Turf Moor.
The stadium looked exactly how Premier League away grounds should look in late autumn.
Hostile.
Compact.
Uncomfortable.
Perfect.
Inside the dressing room before kickoff, Wenger's message stayed predictable and precise.
"Patience."
He pointed toward tactical diagrams while players listened carefully.
"They defend very compactly. We move the ball quickly. Stretch them."
Then toward Francesco and Sánchez.
"Your movement between lines will decide the match."
Outside, Burnley supporters already roared beneath the low dark sky while rain threatened constantly overhead.
Nothing glamorous here.
No Champions League anthem.
No European elegance.
Just English football.
And honestly?
Francesco loved that too.
The match itself became exactly the battle Arsenal expected.
Burnley defended aggressively from the opening whistle, every tackle cheered like a goal by the home crowd while long balls flew endlessly toward physical forwards crashing into duels against Van Dijk and Koscielny.
But Arsenal stayed calm.
Mature again.
There was that word.
The panic from previous Arsenal teams in ugly matches like this no longer existed.
Instead they controlled rhythm patiently.
Waited for openings.
Trusted quality eventually would matter.
And eventually it did.
Thirty-third minute.
Cazorla slipped a brilliant pass through Burnley's midfield line toward Francesco drifting into space just outside the box.
One touch to turn.
Another to accelerate.
Then a finish rolled calmly beyond the goalkeeper into the far corner.
Simple.
Clinical.
Goal Arsenal.
The away supporters exploded behind the goal while Francesco jogged toward them breathing hard through cold air.
No wild celebration.
Just satisfaction.
Another important away goal.
Another step forward.
Sánchez doubled the lead later in the second half after relentless pressing forced Burnley into a mistake near their own area.
Classic Sánchez goal honestly.
Chaos.
Aggression.
Pure refusal to leave defenders alone peacefully.
By full-time Arsenal had won 2–0 professionally without ever truly losing control.
Exactly the kind of victory title-challenging sides needed constantly.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
Efficient.
Back inside the dressing room afterward, Wenger praised the discipline more than the scoreline.
"Very serious performance."
Walker whispered toward Francesco beside him.
"That is French for happy."
Probably accurate.
The schedule moved relentlessly onward again afterward.
Recovery.
Training.
Another tactical briefing.
Then Huddersfield Town arrived at the Emirates several days later.
And unlike Turf Moor, this one exploded immediately into attacking football.
The Emirates carried a different atmosphere lately.
Belief.
Supporters arrived expecting entertainment now instead of nervously hoping Arsenal survived difficult moments.
You could feel confidence growing around the club again.
Before kickoff Francesco stood in the tunnel beside Ozil while Champions League highlights replayed silently across stadium screens overhead.
The German glanced sideways.
"Five assists in my last three matches."
"Subtle."
"You should appreciate greatness."
"Impossible not to."
Ozil smirked faintly before walking out toward the pitch beneath roaring noise.
Huddersfield tried pressing bravely early.
Arsenal punished them almost instantly.
The movement flowing through Wenger's side looked breathtaking at times now.
Quick one-touch combinations.
Rotations everywhere.
Fullbacks flying forward.
Midfielders drifting between lines elegantly.
At times opponents barely touched the ball for minutes.
Francesco opened the scoring after only twelve minutes following a beautiful passing sequence involving Ozil, Cazorla, and Sánchez slicing through Huddersfield's midfield.
The final finish came almost casually.
One touch.
Bottom corner.
Goal.
The Emirates erupted immediately.
And unlike weeks earlier, Francesco fully allowed himself to enjoy the noise now.
No emotional hesitation.
No distance.
Just football.
Sánchez added another before halftime after stealing possession high up the pitch because apparently opposing defenders simply weren't allowed comfort around him.
Then Ozil produced probably the prettiest goal of the afternoon shortly after the break.
Of course he did.
A ridiculous flowing move ended with the German delicately lifting the ball over the goalkeeper after a backheel from Cazorla opened the defense completely.
The Emirates lost its mind.
Even Wenger briefly looked offended by how technically beautiful the goal was.
Giroud came off the bench afterward and scored twice because Olivier Giroud treated substitute appearances like personal artistic statements.
One towering header.
One instinctive finish inside the six-yard box.
Classic Giroud performance honestly.
By full-time Arsenal had dismantled Huddersfield comfortably.
Five-one.
Another dominant performance.
Another flood of headlines.
Another week of pundits suddenly sounding extremely convinced Arsenal might genuinely challenge for every major trophy available.
Football media moved quickly when teams looked unstoppable.
Inside the dressing room after the Huddersfield match, the atmosphere bordered on ridiculous.
Walker danced badly near the speaker system.
Sánchez actually smiled for almost thirty consecutive seconds.
Giroud recreated both goals dramatically for anyone trapped nearby.
Wenger eventually entered the room and immediately restored enough order for professionalism to survive.
Mostly.
"Good attacking movement," he acknowledged calmly.
Then after a pause:
"But our defensive spacing after transitions in the sixty-fifth minute—"
Walker collapsed backward onto a bench.
"There it is."
Laughter exploded instantly.
Even Wenger couldn't hide a smile this time.
The days between matches continued passing almost unnaturally fast after that.
Morning training sessions beneath cold London skies.
Recovery work.
Media obligations.
Team meetings.
Endless tactical preparation.
And now another challenge approached.
Manchester United at the Emirates.
That changed everything immediately.
Because no matter current form.
No matter league position.
Arsenal versus United always carried weight.
History lived inside fixtures like this.
The mood at London Colney sharpened noticeably the moment preparation began.
Training intensity increased automatically.
Pressing drills became more aggressive.
Tackles slightly harder.
Nobody needed reminding what this match meant.
Even younger players felt it.
Walker summed it up perfectly while jogging onto the training pitch one freezing morning.
"Alright lads."
He clapped loudly once.
"Time to annoy Manchester."
"Beautiful speech," Robertson answered.
"Thank you."
Wenger gathered the squad near midfield shortly afterward while cold wind swept across the training ground.
"Concentration this week must be absolute," the manager instructed calmly.
"United are dangerous in transition and physically strong through midfield."
Tactical boards appeared.
Video clips rolled.
Movement patterns analyzed endlessly.
Typical Wenger preparation before major matches.
Francesco noticed the manager looked especially focused this week too.
United matches mattered personally to Wenger.
Years of rivalry lived there.
The training itself became sharp and intense immediately.
Kanté flew across midfield breaking up attacks before they fully developed.
Xhaka sprayed passes everywhere with aggressive precision.
Van Dijk organized defensive shape constantly.
And Francesco felt something dangerous building inside the squad overall.
Belief.
Not arrogance.
Not recklessness.
Trust.
The understanding that Arsenal genuinely could beat anyone when they played properly.
At one point during an eleven-versus-eleven tactical drill, Francesco combined brilliantly with Ozil before finishing past Cech into the bottom corner.
Walker screamed from thirty yards away.
"THAT IS DISRESPECTFUL FOOTBALL."
"Defend better then," Ozil replied smoothly.
Across the pitch Wenger interrupted immediately anyway.
"Reset shape faster after scoring."
Players groaned collectively.
Cazorla laughed beside Francesco.
"He experiences joy differently."
Correct honestly.
But that obsession created standards.
And standards created consistency.
After training one afternoon, players lingered around the pitch longer than usual despite the cold.
Big-match energy already building naturally.
Sánchez practiced finishing drills obsessively with one of the coaches while Giroud worked on headers nearby.
Walcott raced Walker in repeated sprints purely because both apparently shared the mentality of hyperactive children.
Francesco sat briefly on a football beside the touchline catching breath while watching London clouds drift overhead.
His body felt tired.
The season demanded everything constantly.
But emotionally?
He felt steady again.
Grounded.
That mattered more than he could fully explain.
Koscielny eventually dropped beside him stretching tired legs.
"You look happier lately."
Francesco glanced sideways.
"Yeah."
The defender nodded calmly like someone who already knew the answer anyway.
"Good timing. United next."
"Subtle motivation."
"I'm French. We prefer elegance."
"Sure."
Nearby Wenger continued speaking with assistants while occasionally glancing toward the players still training.
Always watching.
Always thinking ahead.
Manchester United awaited now.
The Emirates would be full.
The noise would be enormous.
And somewhere beneath all the tactical preparation and media buildup, everyone at Arsenal understood the truth quietly sitting underneath this fixture.
Manchester United under José Mourinho were dangerous in a completely different way from most teams.
Not always beautiful.
Not always fluid.
But ruthless.
Experienced.
Emotionally hard to kill.
Wenger knew that better than almost anyone alive.
The next morning training resumed beneath a pale London sky with frost still clinging faintly to the edges of the pitches at London Colney.
Cold air drifted across the training ground while players emerged gradually from the main building carrying coffee cups, gloves, and varying levels of enthusiasm about existing before noon.
Walker looked personally insulted by the temperature.
"If I can see my breath during training, football should be postponed."
"You say that every winter," Robertson answered while stretching beside him.
"Because winter is aggressive."
Nearby Sánchez had already started sprint work before most of the squad fully reached the pitch.
Of course he had.
The man approached preparation with the emotional intensity of somebody trying to survive a natural disaster.
Francesco walked onto the grass pulling his training top sleeves lower over his hands while glancing toward Wenger near midfield.
The manager already stood beside a tactical board speaking with Boro Primorac and several analysts.
Focused expression.
Hands folded behind his back.
And even from a distance Francesco could tell Wenger's mind worked differently this week.
Sharper somehow.
United did that to him.
Years of battles against Ferguson.
Years of Mourinho afterward.
These weren't ordinary fixtures in Wenger's memory.
They carried history.
The squad gathered gradually around the manager while cold wind rolled across the training pitch.
Wenger waited until everyone settled before speaking.
"Today we work specifically against transitional structure."
Simple introduction.
But his tone immediately sharpened the atmosphere.
"Manchester United are extremely dangerous when matches become emotionally open."
He pointed toward magnetic tactical pieces arranged carefully across the board.
"Mourinho's teams always understand how to punish imbalance."
That earned immediate attention from everyone.
Because it was true.
United could look quiet for long stretches.
Then suddenly destroy teams within seconds through physicality and direct transitions.
Wenger gestured toward the midfield area.
"We must dominate second balls."
Then toward the back line.
"And we cannot allow isolation defensively against Ibrahimović."
Walker exhaled dramatically beside Francesco.
"That man is basically a skyscraper."
"Helpful observation," Cazorla replied.
"I provide tactical insight."
Wenger ignored the interruption with decades-earned patience.
"Concentration for ninety minutes," he continued calmly.
"Mourinho's teams wait for mistakes emotionally as much as tactically."
That line stayed with Francesco immediately.
Wait for mistakes emotionally.
It perfectly described Mourinho football honestly.
Not chaos.
Control.
Pressure.
Psychological warfare disguised as tactical discipline.
The morning session became brutally intense almost immediately afterward.
Eleven-versus-eleven shape drills.
Defensive transitions.
Press resistance under pressure.
Wenger stopped play constantly correcting positioning by inches.
"Too wide."
"Reset faster."
"Compact after losing possession."
Every detail mattered this week.
At one point during a pressing sequence, Sánchez flew aggressively into a challenge against Xhaka hard enough that the Swiss midfielder stumbled sideways swearing loudly in German.
The ball rolled loose instantly.
Kanté recovered it before anyone else even reacted because apparently physics simply worked differently around him.
Wenger blew the whistle sharply.
"Again."
No complaints followed.
Everyone understood the standard now.
United punished laziness.
Especially Mourinho's United.
Francesco noticed something else too during training.
Wenger spoke more than usual directly with the defensive unit this week.
Long conversations with Van Dijk, Koscielny, and Mustafi about positioning.
Repeated instructions to fullbacks regarding recovery runs.
Careful organization during defensive transitions.
The manager respected Mourinho enormously tactically even if their personalities existed on opposite ends of football philosophy.
And that respect showed in preparation.
During a brief water break Walker collapsed dramatically beside the touchline breathing hard.
"I miss Huddersfield already."
"You miss attacking without defending," Robertson corrected.
"Yes."
Nearby Ozil adjusted his gloves calmly while watching Wenger reorganize cones for another tactical exercise.
The German looked unusually focused too.
United fixtures always seemed to awaken something quietly competitive inside him.
Francesco nudged him lightly.
"You're quiet today."
Ozil glanced sideways.
"Mourinho always motivates me."
Ah.
Right.
History there too.
Football really never forgot anything.
The next drill focused specifically on escaping pressure through midfield while maintaining defensive balance afterward.
Wenger positioned players manually at times like a chess instructor rearranging pieces during lessons.
"Santi deeper."
"Kanté closer."
"Francesco higher between the lines."
Then toward Xhaka:
"Do not force vertical passes if the structure is unstable."
The Swiss midfielder nodded immediately.
Everybody listened closely during sessions like these.
Because Wenger at his sharpest remained frighteningly intelligent tactically.
You could feel decades of elite football thinking flowing through even simple instructions.
At one point Francesco received possession under pressure near the edge of the area before combining sharply with Ozil and finishing low past Cech again.
Clean movement.
Beautiful football.
Walker immediately screamed from midfield.
"THAT IS ABSOLUTELY DISRESPECTFUL."
Before anyone could celebrate properly though Wenger blew the whistle.
"Recovery shape after scoring!"
Collective groans echoed across the pitch.
Cazorla laughed so hard he nearly bent double.
"I swear he sees football differently from normal humans."
"Correct," Walcott answered while still breathing heavily nearby.
"But annoyingly he's always right."
Also true honestly.
Training continued for nearly another hour afterward with relentless intensity.
By the end everyone looked exhausted.
Shirts soaked despite freezing temperatures.
Breathing heavy.
Studs tearing through damp grass repeatedly.
And through it all Wenger remained completely locked in.
Observing everything.
Correcting everything.
The closer the United match approached, the more obvious it became how much this fixture mattered to him.
Eventually the morning session ended and players drifted gradually toward the indoor facilities for recovery work.
But Wenger stopped Francesco before he fully reached the tunnel.
"One minute."
The manager gestured toward the tactical board still standing near midfield.
Francesco walked back over while assistants continued collecting cones nearby.
Wenger tapped one area of the board thoughtfully.
"Against Mourinho, emotional discipline is extremely important."
Francesco listened quietly.
"They will try to frustrate rhythm. Slow transitions. Break momentum."
The older man looked up.
"You cannot become impatient."
Simple advice.
But meaningful.
Because Wenger understood Francesco's game deeply now.
The instinct to force moments.
To attack relentlessly.
Against Mourinho teams, recklessness often became self-destruction.
"We control emotion first," Wenger continued calmly.
"Then football becomes easier."
There was that theme again.
Peace.
Control.
Mental clarity.
Francesco nodded slowly.
"I understand."
Wenger studied him for another second before giving a small approving nod.
Then naturally ruined the emotional depth immediately afterward.
"Also your first touch during the third pressing sequence was too heavy."
"There he is."
Tiny smile again from Wenger.
Rare enough to feel valuable.
By afternoon London rain arrived heavily enough to hammer against the training complex windows while players remained inside for video analysis sessions.
Those meetings always changed atmosphere completely.
Training intensity became quiet concentration instead.
Lights dimmed.
Projectors humming softly.
Players half-reclining in seats while clips rolled endlessly across giant screens.
Today's footage focused entirely on Manchester United.
Mourinho standing near touchlines with folded arms.
Defensive structure shifting compactly.
Fast counterattacks exploding through Rashford and Martial.
Pogba driving through midfield.
And always Ibrahimović lurking dangerously near the box like some immortal Scandinavian warlord refusing to age normally.
Wenger paused clips repeatedly while explaining movement patterns.
"Notice here," he said while freezing footage of United's midfield shape.
"They invite pressure centrally before attacking wide spaces quickly."
Another clip rolled.
Then stopped again.
"And here. Watch Ibrahimović's positioning before the cross."
The Swedish striker drifted casually between defenders before attacking space violently seconds later.
Koscielny exhaled softly.
"He's still ridiculous."
Van Dijk nodded beside him.
"Good challenge."
The room laughed lightly.
Not inaccurate honestly.
Wenger continued the analysis calmly.
"They are strongest when opponents lose emotional structure."
Again that word.
Emotion.
Everything this week returned to emotional control.
Because Mourinho's teams fed off instability.
After the meeting ended players lingered around the room discussing clips among themselves.
Mustafi immediately launched into an animated breakdown of defensive spacing against crossing patterns while using water bottles as player markers again.
Giroud looked trapped but polite.
Walker leaned toward Francesco quietly.
"Sometimes I think Mustafi genuinely dreams about tactical diagrams."
"Probably."
Nearby Sánchez replayed one United counterattack clip repeatedly on a tablet while muttering tactical observations in Spanish under his breath.
The Chilean became terrifyingly focused before major matches.
Like someone entering combat preparation psychologically.
Cazorla eventually stood and stretched.
"Well," he sighed dramatically.
"I now officially hate watching Mourinho teams."
"You already did," Ozil replied smoothly.
"True."
Outside the rain continued pouring over London through the evening while players gradually headed home after recovery work.
Francesco drove back toward Richmond through wet streets glowing beneath traffic lights and reflections.
And the closer matchday came, the more he felt anticipation building naturally inside him.
Not anxiety.
Something healthier now.
Excitement.
The old kind.
That mattered.
At home later that evening Leah noticed it almost immediately while they ate dinner together in the kitchen.
"You've got the look again."
Francesco glanced up from his plate.
"What look?"
"The big-match look."
"That sounds concerning."
"It's not."
She smiled faintly while leaning against the counter.
"You get quieter before matches like this."
He considered that.
Probably true honestly.
United fixtures carried extra electricity.
Everyone felt it.
Leah watched him for another second.
"You nervous?"
Francesco thought carefully before answering.
"No."
Then after a pause:
"Focused."
"Difference?"
"Yeah."
And there really was.
Weeks earlier pressure had tangled itself together with fear and emotional exhaustion.
Now the pressure simply felt competitive again.
Cleaner.
Leah seemed to recognize that too.
Because she smiled softly before returning to her food.
"Good."
The next few days followed the same relentless rhythm.
Train.
Analyze.
Recover.
Prepare.
And with every session the atmosphere at London Colney sharpened further.
Reporters gathered outside the training ground in growing numbers.
Headlines exploded everywhere.
Wenger versus Mourinho again.
Arsenal in title-winning form.
United arriving with momentum of their own.
Every sports network treated the fixture like a heavyweight fight.
Maybe because historically it basically was.
One especially cold morning, training shifted heavily toward attacking patterns against deep defensive blocks.
United under Mourinho defended compactly for long stretches before striking ruthlessly on counters.
Breaking that structure required patience.
Precision.
Movement.
Wenger drilled it obsessively.
"Move them before attacking space," he instructed repeatedly.
"Do not force impossible passes."
The football flowing through Arsenal's attacking combinations during those drills looked frightening at times.
Ozil drifting between lines effortlessly.
Cazorla orchestrating tempo.
Sánchez pressing like a possessed man.
Francesco attacking channels constantly.
At one point a twenty-pass move ended with Walcott squaring for Francesco to finish into the roof of the net.
The entire sequence felt almost unfair technically.
Walker collapsed onto his knees dramatically afterward.
"That should be illegal in several countries."
"You lost the ball twice defending it," Robertson reminded him.
"Defending is subjective."
Even Wenger allowed play to continue several seconds longer before finally stopping training.
Which basically counted as emotional celebration from him.
Eventually though the manager called everyone together again near midfield.
Cold wind swept across the pitch while players gathered around breathing heavily.
Wenger looked around the group carefully before speaking.
"Listen."
The tone alone quieted everything instantly.
"These matches are decided by details."
No theatrics.
No shouting.
Just calm intensity.
"Concentration in transitions. Discipline emotionally. Efficiency in both boxes."
Then after a brief pause:
"And courage."
That last word settled differently.
Because Wenger teams throughout the years had often been accused unfairly of lacking exactly that in major moments.
But this squad?
No.
This group looked mentally harder now.
You could feel it.
Wenger's eyes moved across the players again.
"Do not play the occasion."
Then toward the Emirates looming in everyone's imagination already.
"Play the football."
Simple.
Elegant.
Very Wenger.
After training finished that afternoon, Francesco remained briefly on the pitch practicing finishing alongside Sánchez while stadium floodlights from nearby training areas glowed through gathering darkness.
The Chilean hit three straight finishes past the youth goalkeeper before immediately looking annoyed about the fourth.
"I opened my body too early."
The keeper stared at him in disbelief.
"You still scored."
"Yes. But incorrectly."
Francesco laughed quietly while placing another ball down.
"You're impossible."
Sánchez looked genuinely confused by the accusation.
"No. I am right."
Probably both honestly.
Nearby Wenger still spoke with assistants beside the touchline despite most players already heading inside.
Always preparing.
Always thinking ahead.
And Francesco realized something while watching him there beneath the cold London evening.
Wenger respected Mourinho deeply.
Maybe even more than he openly admitted publicly.
Because only respect created this level of obsession in preparation.
Every detail mattered this week.
Every movement.
Every emotional reaction.
Manchester United under Mourinho were too experienced to forgive mistakes freely, which meant Arsenal would need to be exceptional again.
______________________________________________
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