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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
But maybe that was exactly why moments, people, and eras mattered so much while they existed.
The days after the Wenger sudden announcement to him passed quickly.
Too quickly honestly.
That was the thing about elite football.
One emotional peak barely had time to settle before another competition arrived demanding full concentration again.
The derby victory still dominated headlines across Europe for several days afterward though.
Every sports broadcast replayed Francesco's hat-trick endlessly.
Every pundit suddenly sounded very confident they had "always believed" he would respond strongly after the difficult weeks surrounding the incident.
Football memory worked conveniently like that sometimes.
One brilliant performance and narratives rewrote themselves overnight.
Still, beneath all the media noise, life inside Arsenal remained grounded.
Training continued.
Recovery sessions continued.
Wenger continued finding microscopic tactical imperfections despite winning nearly every important match imaginable over recent years.
Normality returned fully.
And strangely?
Francesco appreciated normality more now than he ever had before.
He slept better.
Laughed easier.
The tension that had lived constantly between his shoulders after the incident slowly loosened day by day.
Not disappearing completely.
But fading enough that he could finally breathe without feeling emotionally braced for something all the time.
Leah noticed it immediately too.
One evening at Richmond, while both sat on the living room floor half-watching some terrible reality cooking show neither actually cared about, she glanced sideways at him during a commercial break.
"You haven't checked the security cameras once tonight."
Francesco blinked slightly.
Because he genuinely hadn't realized.
For nearly two weeks after the incident, he'd checked them obsessively.
Doors.
Windows.
Motion alerts.
Every tiny sound at night triggering instinctive awareness.
Now though?
Tonight he'd forgotten they existed.
That realization sat quietly inside him afterward.
Healing really did happen in strange little moments.
Not dramatic speeches.
Not cinematic breakthroughs.
Just small absences of fear where fear used to live.
And eventually football pulled everyone forward again.
Because Europe waited.
Seville greeted Arsenal with warmth London no longer possessed.
The Spanish air felt softer immediately stepping off the plane.
Late afternoon sunlight spread gold across the city while palm trees swayed gently near the roads leading toward the team hotel.
Even November somehow looked beautiful in Spain.
Walker noticed first of course.
"This weather is disrespectful."
Robertson looked equally offended.
"I left Scotland for this?"
"You left Scotland because sunlight scares you."
"Correct."
The team bus rolled through the streets while supporters gathered outside barriers waving scarves and shouting toward players through tinted windows.
Champions League away nights always carried different energy from domestic football.
More glamorous.
More theatrical.
Even the cities themselves seemed to understand European nights mattered differently.
Francesco sat near the middle of the bus wearing headphones loosely around his neck while staring out toward Seville passing outside.
Balconies draped with Sevilla flags.
Motorbikes weaving through traffic.
Bars already packed with supporters hours before kickoff tomorrow.
Beside him Kante quietly watched tactical clips on a tablet because apparently relaxation physically did not exist inside him.
Francesco glanced sideways.
"You ever stop studying football?"
Kante looked up innocently.
"I watched twenty minutes of a nature documentary earlier."
"Living dangerously."
The midfielder smiled faintly before returning to tactical footage of Sevilla's midfield rotations.
Completely hopeless honestly.
The evening before the match passed calmly.
Team meal.
Light tactical briefing.
Recovery work.
Wenger discussing Sevilla's pressing structure with the intensity of a university lecturer analyzing political philosophy.
"We must control transitions carefully," the manager explained while pointing toward clips projected onto the meeting room screen.
"Especially wide overloads through Vitolo and Mariano."
Players nodded attentively.
Champions League away matches punished tactical laziness brutally.
Francesco noticed Wenger looked slightly more energized during European weeks too.
Like continental football awakened something deeper inside him strategically.
The older man loved these nights.
Everyone could tell.
Eventually meetings ended and players drifted back toward rooms.
Francesco stood briefly on the hotel balcony later that night looking over Seville glowing beneath warm lights.
The city buzzed softly even past midnight.
Somewhere below, supporters still sang in bars while scooters buzzed through narrow streets.
Champions League atmosphere already alive hours before kickoff.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Leah.
Good luck tomorrow ❤️
Francesco smiled faintly before replying.
Try not to scream at television again.
Her answer arrived almost instantly.
No promises.
Fair enough honestly.
Matchday arrived bright and warm.
The kind of European afternoon that made football feel cinematic before a ball was even kicked.
Inside the team hotel, breakfast carried that familiar pre-match atmosphere.
Focused.
Calm.
Quiet confidence mixed with nervous energy beneath the surface.
Some players joked lightly.
Others barely spoke.
Different rituals for different minds.
Francesco sat beside Ozil eating fruit while watching muted Champions League coverage playing across hotel televisions.
The German glanced sideways eventually.
"You know Wenger has replayed your movement against Tottenham approximately forty-seven times this week."
"Only forty-seven?"
"He may actually love you now."
"Terrifying development."
Ozil smiled faintly.
"He showed me clips yesterday."
"Of the goals?"
"No. One run in the sixty-third minute."
Francesco stared at him.
"Of course he did."
That was Wenger.
Obsessed equally by beautiful goals and tiny positional details nobody else even noticed.
By evening the squad boarded the team bus toward the stadium.
And immediately the atmosphere shifted.
Match focus fully arriving now.
Headphones on.
Music playing quietly.
Players staring out windows mentally preparing themselves.
Outside, police escorts guided the bus through crowded streets already flooded with supporters.
Sevilla fans lined roads waving scarves and flares while chanting loudly as the Arsenal bus passed.
Red smoke drifted into the warm Spanish air.
Walker looked out the window and grinned.
"Okay yeah. This feels very Champions League."
It did.
Everything about nights like this felt bigger.
The bus eventually turned toward the looming structure of Estadio Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán rising ahead beneath floodlights.
The stadium glowed brilliantly against the darkening sky while thousands of supporters already surrounded entrances singing nonstop.
Francesco felt the familiar shift inside his chest stepping off the bus.
Adrenaline beginning.
Focus narrowing.
European nights activated something different inside footballers.
Something sharper.
The moment Arsenal players stepped onto the pavement outside the stadium, noise crashed over them instantly.
Sevilla supporters screamed toward the arriving squad while cameras flashed everywhere.
Security guided the team quickly through the entrance tunnel and into the stadium interior.
Inside, the atmosphere changed again.
Concrete corridors.
Champions League branding everywhere.
UEFA officials moving briskly through hallways with clipboards and headsets.
Francesco walked beside Van Dijk toward the dressing room while distant crowd noise echoed through the stadium structure already.
"You can feel this place," the Dutch defender muttered quietly.
Francesco nodded.
European stadiums always carried personality.
And Sánchez-Pizjuán felt intense immediately.
The dressing room itself already sat fully prepared when Arsenal entered.
Red and white shirts hanging neatly at each locker.
Champions League anthem faintly audible somewhere deeper in the stadium.
Players began changing into training gear while staff organized final preparations around them.
Sánchez bounced lightly on his feet already overflowing with nervous energy.
"I love these matches."
"We can tell," Cazorla replied dryly.
Wenger entered briefly while players prepared for warmups.
"Sharp session outside," the manager instructed calmly.
"Focus immediately. The crowd will try creating emotional pressure early."
Then after a slight pause:
"We silence that with football."
Simple.
Direct.
Very Wenger.
The squad headed toward the pitch moments later.
And the second Arsenal emerged from the tunnel into the stadium bowl, the full noise hit them.
Massive.
Sevilla supporters created a wall of sound beneath floodlights blazing overhead.
Scarves waved everywhere.
Flags rippled through the stands.
Champions League music pulsed through stadium speakers while cameras tracked every movement.
Francesco jogged onto the grass beside Walker and Robertson while warm air brushed against his face.
The pitch looked immaculate beneath the lights.
Perfect surface.
Perfect occasion.
Exactly the kind of night elite footballers lived for.
Warmups began immediately.
Passing drills.
Sprint work.
Finishing patterns.
The crowd whistled loudly every time Arsenal players touched the ball while Sevilla supporters roared approval whenever their own players appeared.
European hostility always felt strangely respectful underneath though.
Intense.
But beautiful.
At one point during shooting drills, Francesco curled a finish perfectly into the top corner from outside the box.
The Arsenal supporters high in the away section erupted instantly.
Walker pointed dramatically.
"He's doing it again."
"Relax."
"No."
Nearby Cazorla laughed while continuing quick passing combinations with Ozil.
The Spanish midfielder looked especially comfortable back home in Spain again.
Loose.
Sharp.
Happy.
After nearly forty minutes the warmup finally ended.
Players applauded the away supporters briefly before jogging back toward the tunnel.
Now came the real transition.
Training mode ending.
Competition beginning.
Inside the dressing room atmosphere shifted instantly quieter.
Focused.
Players peeled off training tops and changed into match kits while boots thudded softly against the floor.
Francesco sat pulling on shin pads while Champions League graphics played silently across the television mounted on the wall.
Wenger eventually stepped toward the center of the room holding the tactical board.
Instant silence.
The manager looked around calmly.
"No changes in structure," he began.
Then gestured toward Cazorla.
"Santi comes in for Mesut tonight."
Ozil nodded immediately without issue.
No ego.
Just football.
Cazorla grinned faintly while adjusting tape around his wrist.
Wenger continued.
"We control possession intelligently. Sevilla will press emotionally early because of the crowd."
He pointed toward the tactical board.
"Our spacing must stay disciplined."
Then toward Francesco and Sánchez.
"Movement behind their fullbacks will be important."
Everyone listened carefully.
Champions League matches demanded precision.
"One more thing," Wenger added quietly.
"Do not let atmosphere become chaos."
His eyes moved around the room.
"We dictate the rhythm."
That line settled firmly.
Arsenal at their best always controlled emotional tempo.
Not just possession.
Emotion itself.
Eventually the briefing ended.
Players rose together.
Boots laced.
Jackets zipped.
Final stretches.
The tunnel awaited.
The walk toward the tunnel carried electricity through every step.
Champions League nights always transformed ordinary corridors into something cinematic.
UEFA branding glowing beneath lights.
Referees speaking quietly together near the entrance.
Mascots waiting nervously beside officials.
Francesco rolled his shoulders loose while Arsenal lined up beside Sevilla's players already gathered near the tunnel mouth.
Sergio Escudero stood at the front wearing the captain's armband for Sevilla tonight.
Focused expression.
Calm intensity.
The noise from inside the stadium thundered continuously now.
Like standing beside an ocean.
Walker leaned slightly toward Francesco.
"This anthem still gives me goosebumps."
"Yeah."
No sarcasm attached tonight.
Because it did.
The Champions League anthem meant something different.
Childhood dreams wrapped into music.
The officials signaled.
Players straightened automatically.
Then the walk began.
Out through the tunnel.
Into noise.
Floodlights exploded overhead as both teams emerged side by side into the packed stadium bowl.
The crowd roared deafeningly.
Red and white flags waved throughout the stands while Arsenal supporters answered from the away section high above.
Francesco stepped onto the pitch breathing slowly while cameras tracked every movement.
This.
This was why football consumed people.
Both teams lined up beside the referees while the anthem began echoing through the stadium.
Da da da daaaa.
Even after years playing at the highest level, moments like this still hit differently.
Francesco looked briefly along Arsenal's line.
Walker focused intensely.
Kante perfectly calm somehow.
Cazorla smiling faintly back in Spain.
Wenger standing near the touchline beneath the floodlights looking exactly where he belonged.
The anthem finished.
The stadium roared again instantly.
Players shook hands with referees and opponents afterward.
"Good luck," Escudero told Francesco politely in Spanish.
"You too."
Professional respect.
Then came the team photo.
Players crouched into formation while photographers shouted instructions rapidly.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Another moment frozen forever.
Afterward both captains headed toward midfield with the referee for the coin toss.
Koscielny stood opposite Escudero beneath the bright lights while the crowd buzzed around them.
The coin spun.
Escudero won.
Sevilla kickoff.
Players drifted back toward positions while final instructions echoed across the pitch.
Francesco bounced lightly on his toes near the center circle.
Breathing steady.
Mind clear.
The referee checked both lines.
Then finally, the whistle has been blew.
Match started.
And immediately Arsenal pressed aggressively.
Exactly as planned.
Francesco sprinted toward Sevilla's back line forcing hurried passes while Sánchez hunted possession beside him like a man personally offended by opponents keeping the ball.
Behind them Kante and Xhaka pushed high aggressively controlling midfield space.
Arsenal wanted authority early.
Not survival.
The opening minutes carried frantic intensity.
Sevilla attempted playing through pressure while the home crowd roared approval every time their side escaped Arsenal's press.
But Wenger's team looked sharp immediately.
Compact shape.
Quick transitions.
Fast circulation.
At seven minutes Cazorla nearly created the opener already after slipping a perfect through ball toward Gnabry cutting inside from the right.
The young German winger shot low first-time.
Saved well by Rico.
The away supporters applauded loudly regardless.
Warning sign.
Sevilla responded with pressure of their own afterward.
Vitolo drove dangerously down the left twice forcing Walker into strong defensive recoveries while Nasri tried dictating tempo through midfield against his former club.
The atmosphere stayed fierce.
Every tackle celebrated loudly.
Every foul greeted with whistles.
Champions League football in Spain always felt emotionally volcanic.
At fifteen minutes Francesco dropped deeper collecting possession before turning sharply away from Mercado and driving toward the area.
The movement opened space immediately.
Sánchez darted diagonally.
Gnabry attacked the far channel.
Arsenal's fluidity looked dangerous.
Francesco slid the pass wide toward Robertson overlapping aggressively.
Cross.
Cleared barely by Sevilla's defense.
Wenger applauded sharply from the touchline.
"Good! Again!"
Arsenal continued growing into control afterward.
The press remained relentless.
Kante intercepted everything.
Seriously everything.
At one point he somehow stole possession from two Sevilla midfielders simultaneously while barely appearing to accelerate.
Cazorla laughed out loud watching it happen.
"Ridiculous player."
Correct assessment honestly.
Then finally the breakthrough came.
Twenty-fourth minute.
Arsenal won a free kick just outside the area after Sánchez got clipped cutting inside from the left.
Dangerous position.
Perfect for Cazorla.
The Emirates of Spain suddenly whistled deafeningly as the little Spaniard placed the ball carefully.
Francesco stood nearby watching while Sevilla organized the wall nervously.
Walker leaned over slightly.
"He's scoring."
"You say that every free kick."
"Because I believe in art."
Fair enough honestly.
The referee blew the whistle.
Cazorla took three quick steps forward.
Then whipped his right foot beautifully through the ball.
Curl.
Dip.
Perfection.
The shot sailed over the wall and bent viciously into the top corner beyond Rico's desperate dive.
Goal Arsenal.
The away section exploded instantly.
Cazorla sprinted toward the corner grinning wildly while teammates chased after him.
Even Wenger allowed himself a brief satisfied smile near the technical area.
Francesco grabbed Cazorla around the shoulders laughing.
"You tiny magician."
The Spaniard pointed toward the Sevilla crowd dramatically.
"Still got it."
The home stadium quieted slightly afterward.
Not silent.
But stunned.
Arsenal smelled uncertainty immediately.
And just like against Tottenham, Wenger's side intensified pressure instead of retreating.
Possession became cleaner.
Passing sharper.
Sevilla struggled escaping midfield traps now.
At thirty-two minutes Francesco nearly doubled the lead himself after receiving possession from Xhaka near the edge of the box.
One turn.
Quick acceleration.
Shot.
Wide by inches.
The away supporters groaned collectively.
Francesco slapped his hands together once frustrated.
"So close."
Walker shouted from behind him.
"Next one."
Turns out he was right.
Thirty-eight minutes.
Arsenal struck again.
The move started through Kante winning possession near the midfield before immediately feeding Xhaka.
Quick switch wide.
Gnabry isolated one-on-one against Escudero down the right flank.
Danger.
The young winger accelerated brilliantly before cutting inside sharply.
Sevilla's back line retreated.
Too late.
Gnabry lifted his head and spotted Francesco darting perfectly between center-backs.
The pass came low and precise across the area.
Francesco met it first-time.
Clean strike.
Bottom corner.
Goal.
2–0 Arsenal.
The away section erupted again beneath the floodlights.
Francesco wheeled away instantly pumping one fist toward the supporters while teammates swarmed him.
Another European goal.
Another huge moment.
Sánchez screamed something emotional directly into his face during celebrations that sounded approximately seventy percent Spanish and thirty percent pure adrenaline.
Walker arrived seconds later.
"Elite finish!"
"You call everything elite!"
"Because I recognize greatness!"
Behind them Sevilla players looked rattled now.
Arsenal had complete control.
Wenger stood calmly near the technical area with arms folded, but Francesco noticed the faint satisfaction in his expression again.
This was exactly the performance Arsenal wanted.
Professional.
Aggressive.
Intelligent.
The remaining minutes of the first half stayed tense but controlled.
Sevilla pushed emotionally trying dragging themselves back into the contest before halftime, urged forward desperately by the crowd.
But Arsenal defended brilliantly.
Van Dijk dominated aerially.
Koscielny organized everything with cold authority.
Kante erased danger before it fully developed.
At forty-three minutes Vitolo forced Cech into a sharp save from distance, drawing huge noise from the home supporters.
But Arsenal never panicked.
Never lost shape.
The maturity inside this side showed everywhere now.
Eventually the referee checked his watch.
Then blew for halftime.
Arsenal 2–0 Sevilla.
Players headed back toward the tunnel beneath mixed noise from both sets of supporters.
The away fans sang loudly.
The home crowd whistled frustration.
Francesco walked beside Cazorla breathing hard while sweat cooled across the back of his neck.
"Beautiful free kick," he told the Spaniard.
Cazorla grinned.
"I know."
Confidence of a tiny football wizard honestly.
Inside the dressing room Wenger waited calmly while players grabbed water bottles and collapsed briefly onto benches.
The manager allowed thirty seconds of breathing space first.
Then he stepped forward.
"Good first half."
Simple.
Measured.
But approving.
"We controlled the match intelligently."
He pointed toward the tactical board quickly afterward though because Wenger physically could not remain purely emotional for long.
"Second half we must remain disciplined. Sevilla will become more aggressive now."
Players listened closely while catching breath.
The manager's eyes moved around the room.
"No complacency."
Then toward Francesco and Sánchez:
"Continue attacking the spaces behind them. The opportunities are there."
Finally Wenger folded his arms.
"We finish the match properly."
Then after that, the second half began exactly the way Arsène Wenger wanted.
No hesitation.
No retreat.
No emotional drop simply because Arsenal already led by two goals away from home in the Champions League.
If anything, they looked even sharper after halftime.
From the very first whistle, Arsenal pushed Sevilla backward again with controlled aggression, circulating possession quickly across midfield while forcing the Spanish side to chase shadows under the floodlights of Sánchez-Pizjuán.
The crowd tried lifting Sevilla immediately.
Every forward pass from the home side drew roaring encouragement.
Every Arsenal touch was whistled loudly.
But Wenger's players never lost composure.
That was the biggest difference in this Arsenal side now compared to previous years.
They no longer treated hostile atmospheres like chaos.
They treated them like puzzles.
Problems to solve calmly.
Francesco could feel it everywhere on the pitch during those opening minutes of the second half.
Communication stayed constant.
Movement stayed disciplined.
Nobody rushed anything unnecessarily.
Kanté continued vacuuming loose balls out of midfield like some unfair tactical cheat code.
Xhaka controlled tempo beside him with cold patience.
Cazorla drifted beautifully between spaces, constantly offering angles Sevilla struggled tracking.
And up front, Francesco and Sánchez kept stretching the defensive line relentlessly.
At forty-eight minutes Arsenal nearly found a third already.
Walker intercepted a loose Sevilla pass near halfway before immediately driving forward into open space.
The right-back looked energized tonight, feeding completely off the intensity of the occasion.
"Go!" he shouted while carrying the ball.
Francesco peeled toward the inside-right channel instantly while Sánchez darted diagonally between defenders.
Walker slipped the pass perfectly into Francesco's path near the edge of the box.
One touch.
Turn.
Shot.
Blocked desperately by Mercado before it could fully trouble Rico.
The rebound bounced toward Sánchez, who tried an acrobatic volley that flew narrowly over the bar.
The away supporters applauded loudly anyway.
Arsenal smelled blood.
Sevilla did too.
And that made the stadium nervous.
The Spanish side attempted responding through emotion more than structure now.
Vitolo drove aggressively down the wing twice in quick succession while Nasri tried accelerating transitions through midfield, desperate to drag his team back into the contest against his former club.
But Arsenal's defensive organization remained excellent.
Van Dijk looked colossal at the back.
Every aerial ball belonged to him.
Every cross seemed magnetically pulled toward his forehead.
At one point Muriel tried spinning away from the Dutch defender near the touchline only for Van Dijk to calmly shoulder him off the ball with almost insulting ease.
Walker burst out laughing nearby.
"That man is genuinely terrifying."
"Helpful though," Robertson answered.
"Very."
Wenger meanwhile prowled his technical area constantly, occasionally stepping forward sharply to bark instructions before retreating again with folded arms.
Francesco glanced toward him once during a brief stoppage and noticed the manager still looked intensely focused despite the scoreline.
No relaxation.
Not yet.
European football punished complacency too quickly.
Then came the moment that truly killed the match.
Fifty-fourth minute.
And it started with pure Arsenal control.
The move built patiently from the back through Cech and Van Dijk before flowing into midfield where Cazorla received possession under pressure near the center circle.
One quick touch.
Another.
Then a beautiful turn away from Nasri that drew appreciative gasps even from parts of the Sevilla crowd.
Tiny magician indeed.
Cazorla slid the ball sideways toward Xhaka.
Nothing looked particularly dangerous initially.
Sevilla's shape stayed compact.
Francesco made a movement toward the left channel dragging a defender with him while Sánchez hovered near the edge of the area waiting for space to open.
Then Xhaka looked up.
And decided violence was appropriate.
The Swiss midfielder took one touch forward before unleashing an absolutely thunderous strike from nearly thirty yards.
The sound alone felt vicious.
A cannon shot exploding off his left boot.
The ball flew through the warm Spanish air rising slightly before swerving viciously toward the top corner.
Rico launched himself full stretch.
Didn't matter.
The shot crashed into the net with breathtaking force.
Goal Arsenal.
3–0.
For half a second the entire stadium froze in collective disbelief.
Then the away section detonated.
Players erupted toward Xhaka immediately while the Swiss midfielder screamed in pure adrenaline near the edge of the box, veins bulging in his neck as teammates piled onto him beneath the floodlights.
Francesco reached him first.
"What was that?!"
Xhaka looked completely possessed by emotion.
"I HIT IT!"
"You nearly broke the net!"
Walker arrived seconds later already losing his mind.
"THAT IS A RIDICULOUS HUMAN BEING!"
Even usually composed players like Kanté were laughing now while shoving Xhaka around during celebrations.
Near the touchline Wenger clapped firmly once before briefly allowing himself another satisfied smile.
Not dramatic.
Never dramatic.
But undeniably proud.
Because this was football exactly how he loved it.
Technical.
Intelligent.
Dominant away from home in Europe.
Meanwhile Sánchez-Pizjuán had gone eerily quiet except for the Arsenal supporters singing wildly high in the away section.
Three-nil away in Spain against Sevilla.
Complete control.
Francesco jogged back toward halfway breathing heavily while glancing around the stadium glowing beneath the floodlights.
Champions League nights could shift emotionally in seconds.
Twenty minutes ago Sevilla still believed.
Now Arsenal had one hand wrapped firmly around the match.
The home side tried responding after the goal, pushed forward more aggressively by desperation than confidence.
Nasri attempted forcing combinations through midfield while Mariano and Escudero bombed higher from fullback positions trying stretch Arsenal wider.
But every opening seemed to disappear the moment it appeared.
Kanté intercepted everything.
Seriously everything.
At one point Correa attempted driving through midfield only for Kanté to somehow poke the ball away cleanly from behind without even committing a foul.
The French midfielder immediately recovered possession afterward like the entire sequence had offended him personally.
Cazorla shook his head laughing.
"You aren't normal."
Kanté smiled shyly.
Smallest reaction imaginable.
Meanwhile Francesco still looked dangerous every time Arsenal transitioned forward.
At sixty-one minutes he nearly created another goal after spinning beautifully away from Pareja near midfield before carrying the ball forty yards into open space.
The Sevilla crowd groaned nervously as Arsenal flooded forward around him.
Sánchez sprinted left.
Gnabry attacked centrally.
Francesco delayed perfectly before slipping the pass wide toward Robertson overlapping aggressively.
Cross.
Cleared barely again.
The pressure never truly stopped.
And Wenger knew the match was effectively won now.
But the season was long.
Important players needed protecting.
At sixty-four minutes the fourth official finally raised the substitution board near the halfway line.
Number 9.
Number 7.
Number 6.
Francesco saw it immediately.
So did the away supporters.
A huge roar rolled down from the Arsenal section while Wenger stepped toward the touchline preparing changes.
Giroud for Francesco.
Walcott for Sánchez.
Mustafi for Koscielny.
Fresh legs.
Match management.
Professional control.
Francesco slowed near the center circle breathing deeply while applause echoed around the stadium.
Not from Sevilla supporters mostly.
From Arsenal fans high above singing his name loudly through the Spanish night.
After the weeks he'd endured emotionally, moments like this hit differently now.
Not because of headlines.
Not because of praise.
Because football finally felt joyful again.
He jogged toward the sideline beside Sánchez and Koscielny while teammates clapped them off.
Sánchez looked annoyed about leaving despite the scoreline because of course he did.
"I wanted another goal."
"You always want another goal."
"Yes."
Fair point honestly.
Near the touchline Francesco pulled the captain's armband from his sleeve before handing it respectfully to Petr Čech.
The goalkeeper accepted it with a nod.
"Well done."
"You too, skipper."
Čech adjusted the armband calmly before immediately turning to reorganize Arsenal's defensive shape again because goalkeepers apparently relaxed even less than midfielders.
Koscielny meanwhile exchanged a brief handshake with Mustafi before taking his seat beside Wenger.
The Arsenal manager leaned toward him immediately discussing positioning details despite leading three-nil.
Some things never changed.
Across the pitch Eduardo Berizzo responded with changes of his own.
Steven Nzonzi departed alongside Nolito and Ben Yedder while Franco Vázquez, Luis Muriel, and Joaquín Correa entered trying inject fresh energy into Sevilla's fading performance.
The home crowd tried lifting the atmosphere again as the substitutes entered.
Flags waved.
Drums pounded.
Noise rose briefly once more.
But Arsenal had complete emotional control now.
That was the key.
They never allowed the stadium back into the game.
Francesco dropped onto the bench beside Koscielny while accepting a water bottle from one of the staff members.
Sweat cooled quickly against his skin in the warm night air.
His legs ached pleasantly.
The good kind of exhaustion.
The kind that came from dominating high-level football matches.
Beside him Koscielny exhaled slowly.
"Professional performance."
Francesco nodded.
"Very."
Out on the pitch Arsenal shifted naturally into game-management mode without becoming passive.
That balance mattered enormously to Wenger.
He hated cowardly football.
Even protecting leads needed intelligence rather than fear.
Giroud gave Arsenal an outlet immediately with his hold-up play while Walcott's pace kept Sevilla's defensive line cautious about pushing too high.
At sixty-eight minutes Walcott nearly added a fourth after latching onto a brilliant through ball from Cazorla.
The winger accelerated clear toward goal before Rico rushed out quickly forcing the shot wide.
Walker threw both hands onto his head dramatically.
"He still runs faster than physics."
"His finishing remains negotiable," Robertson replied.
"Rude."
The match settled afterward into a slower rhythm.
Not boring.
Never fully boring on European nights.
But controlled.
Sevilla continued trying create openings through moments of individual quality while Arsenal calmly absorbed pressure and countered whenever spaces appeared.
Van Dijk remained immense.
Every Sevilla cross seemed to end with him heading the ball away authoritatively before immediately reorganizing the line.
At seventy-two minutes Muriel finally forced a decent save from Čech after turning sharply inside the area and driving a low shot toward the near post.
The Czech goalkeeper pushed it away strongly before barking instructions immediately afterward.
Captain now fully engaged.
The home supporters applauded the effort loudly trying cling to any remaining momentum.
But Arsenal looked emotionally untouchable tonight.
Francesco watched from the bench while occasionally exchanging comments with Wenger's assistants nearby.
The manager himself remained standing almost continuously despite the comfortable lead.
Arms folded.
Eyes scanning constantly.
Still correcting positioning.
Still demanding concentration.
At one point Walcott failed to track a runner fully and Wenger immediately barked toward the pitch.
"Theo! Compact!"
Three-nil up away in Spain and the man still coached like the match sat level.
That obsession explained everything honestly.
The final twenty minutes drifted steadily toward conclusion with Arsenal increasingly comfortable controlling possession.
Cazorla orchestrated beautifully until the very end, dancing away from pressure with that effortless balance that made football look simpler than it actually was.
Even Sevilla supporters occasionally applauded particularly elegant moments despite themselves.
Spanish crowds appreciated technical brilliance.
At seventy-eight minutes Francesco leaned slightly forward watching Kanté somehow recover possession again after what looked like a lost situation entirely.
The Frenchman chased down Vázquez near midfield, stole the ball cleanly, then immediately found Xhaka with a perfectly weighted pass.
Walker laughed from the pitch.
"N'Golo actually has infinite stamina."
"No," Robertson shouted back.
"He steals energy from opponents."
Honestly possible.
The away supporters continued singing nonstop high in the corner section throughout the second half.
Every now and then their chants echoed clearly around the stadium between quieter moments in play.
Francesco looked up toward them once and felt something settle warmly inside his chest again.
Connection.
Belonging.
Football could become ugly sometimes.
Cruel sometimes.
But nights like this reminded him why he loved it in the first place.
The pressure.
The atmosphere.
The togetherness inside great teams.
At eighty-three minutes Wenger finally sat down briefly for the first time in what felt like hours.
Pat Rice immediately said something beside him that drew a tired smile from the Frenchman.
Francesco couldn't hear the words.
But he could guess the meaning.
This had been close to perfect.
Away from home.
Champions League football.
Complete tactical control.
Meanwhile Sevilla's intensity gradually faded as reality settled heavier over the stadium.
Their supporters still sang proudly.
Still supported loudly.
But the desperation disappeared.
The match belonged entirely to Arsenal now.
At eighty-six minutes Giroud nearly added a late fourth after meeting a Walker cross with a powerful header that Rico tipped brilliantly over the bar.
The French striker clapped appreciatively toward the fullback afterward.
"Good ball!"
"Score next time then!"
"Demanding man."
Even Wenger laughed faintly at that one.
The final minutes ticked away beneath the floodlights with Arsenal circulating possession calmly while Sevilla chased increasingly hopelessly.
Every completed pass drew frustrated whistles from sections of the home support now.
Cazorla especially seemed determined to emotionally torture opponents through technical excellence.
Little spins.
Quick one-touch combinations.
Tiny body feints.
The man treated midfield like street art.
Then finally the referee glanced toward his watch.
One last Sevilla attack broke down harmlessly against Mustafi.
Walker cleared long.
And the whistle blew.
Full time.
Sevilla 0–3 Arsenal.
For a brief second Arsenal players simply stood there absorbing the noise washing around the stadium.
The away supporters erupted immediately.
Massive cheers pouring down from the corner section while players exchanged exhausted smiles beneath the Spanish night sky.
Another huge European victory.
Another statement performance.
Francesco rose from the bench instantly stepping back onto the pitch alongside the substitutes and coaching staff.
Sánchez-Pizjuán remained loud despite defeat, Sevilla supporters applauding their own players respectfully while Arsenal's traveling fans celebrated wildly overhead.
Wenger shook hands with Berizzo near the touchline first.
Professional.
Measured.
Then he turned toward his players clapping firmly.
Not excessive praise.
Just clear approval.
Exactly the kind of performance he valued most.
Focused.
Mature.
Intelligent.
Francesco exchanged shirts with Escudero near midfield after a brief conversation in Spanish before turning toward the away section with the rest of the squad.
Together Arsenal players walked across the pitch applauding the supporters.
The fans answered with deafening noise.
Songs echoing around the stadium.
Scarves raised high.
Walker bounced while clapping above his head like a man fueled entirely by crowd energy.
Sánchez pointed repeatedly toward supporters in appreciation.
Cazorla smiled warmly back in his home country.
And Francesco stood there for a moment beneath the floodlights breathing everything in quietly.
The warmth of the Spanish air.
The ache in his legs.
The distant Champions League music still echoing softly around the stadium.
______________________________________________
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