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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Those answers would be written on football pitches over the months to come, one match at a time.
Two days disappeared almost before anyone at Arsenal had realised.
The day off had allowed tired legs to recover.
The following day had been devoted to light recovery work, stretching, treatment sessions and tactical preparation.
Now the calendar moved on once more.
Football never waited.
Not even for champions.
Saturday afternoon arrived beneath a bright London sky, with crisp winter air surrounding the Emirates Stadium.
Long before kick-off, Holloway Road was already overflowing with supporters.
Scarves wrapped around necks.
Programme sellers called out to passing fans.
Children posed beside statues outside the stadium while parents patiently took photographs.
Among the thousands making their way through the turnstiles, one conversation seemed impossible to avoid.
The Carabao Cup.
Everywhere supporters looked, someone was wearing a commemorative scarf celebrating Wembley.
Others replayed Francesco's winning goal on their phones.
Many still couldn't quite believe Arsenal would be facing Manchester City again so quickly after such an unforgettable final.
As Arsenal's team coach rolled beneath the Emirates into the underground players' entrance, supporters waiting outside applauded loudly.
Several phones rose into the air.
The players acknowledged them through the windows.
Walker tapped the glass.
"They're still celebrating."
Ramsey smiled.
"So are we."
Francesco sat quietly near the front of the coach, headphones resting around his neck rather than over his ears.
He watched the familiar concrete tunnel appear outside the window.
The celebrations had been wonderful.
Now they belonged in the past.
Another ninety minutes waited.
Another enormous challenge.
The bus came to a gentle stop.
Almost immediately, club staff opened the luggage compartment while security escorted the players inside.
The atmosphere was completely different from Wembley.
Less emotional.
More focused.
This was home.
Inside the Emirates corridors, members of staff greeted the squad with smiles.
"Morning."
"Congratulations again."
"Enjoyed the day off?"
Walker answered one staff member.
"I've recovered enough to celebrate another win."
"You recovered enough to annoy everyone again."
"I never stopped."
Robertson laughed.
"That's unfortunately true."
The squad continued toward the dressing room.
As Francesco pushed open the familiar door, every locker was already prepared.
Fresh training kit.
Boots neatly positioned underneath.
Recovery drinks waiting beside every seat.
Above Francesco's place hung something else.
The captain's shirt.
Number 9.
He paused for just a second.
Walker immediately noticed.
"Looks good, Skip."
Francesco smiled.
"I'll try to do it justice."
"You always do."
One by one the players changed into their navy training gear.
Tape wrapped around ankles.
Boots tightened.
Music played softly through the dressing room while physios completed final mobility checks.
Kanté stretched quietly beside Xhaka.
Alexis bounced lightly on his toes, already impatient to get outside.
Walker adjusted his boots for what felt like the tenth time.
"These never fit properly."
Robertson glanced down.
"They're exactly the same boots you wore on Wednesday."
"They've changed."
"They haven't."
"They definitely have."
"You're impossible."
Walker grinned.
"I've heard that before."
A knock sounded on the dressing-room door.
Tony Colbert looked inside.
"Five minutes."
"Warm-up."
Immediately conversations began fading.
Players picked up jackets before filing into the tunnel.
The roar that greeted Arsenal as they emerged onto the Emirates pitch felt almost like a continuation of Wembley.
More than sixty thousand supporters stood and applauded.
Many still waved Carabao Cup scarves.
The giant screens replayed highlights from the final while Francesco's winning goal drew another enormous cheer.
The players acknowledged the supporters before beginning their warm-up.
Light jogging came first.
Then dynamic stretching.
Passing drills followed.
Cech worked separately with the goalkeeping coaches.
Francesco exchanged quick one-touch combinations with Özil and Alexis.
The movements felt sharp.
Comfortable.
Natural.
On the opposite side of the pitch, Manchester City's players were also warming up.
Pep Guardiola watched closely with his arms folded.
His expression remained calm, but there was an unmistakable determination about him.
Nobody wanted to lose twice to the same opponent in the space of a few days.
De Bruyne struck several long-range efforts during shooting practice.
Agüero looked as sharp as ever.
Bernardo Silva worked tirelessly through possession drills.
Yet something felt slightly different.
Slightly heavier.
Perhaps it was imagination.
Perhaps not.
Francesco watched briefly before returning to the passing exercise.
Football had a habit of punishing assumptions.
After almost thirty minutes, referee Michael Oliver walked onto the pitch to inspect the playing surface.
That was the signal.
Warm-up complete.
The players applauded the supporters once more before disappearing back beneath the stands.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere immediately shifted.
Training tops disappeared.
Match shirts appeared.
The familiar red and white returned.
Studs clicked across the tiled floor.
Tape was adjusted one final time.
Shin pads disappeared beneath socks.
Francesco carefully pulled on his shirt before tying his boots.
A few moments later, Cazorla walked over carrying the blue captain's armband.
"This belongs to you today."
Francesco accepted it respectfully.
"I'll look after it."
"I know you will."
He fastened it securely around his left arm before flexing his wrist once.
It felt different at the Emirates.
Different from Wembley.
Today he was captain from the very beginning.
One by one the players settled into their seats as Wenger entered carrying a tactical folder.
The room naturally fell silent.
The manager looked around.
No raised voice.
No dramatic speech.
Only calm authority.
He placed the magnetic tactics board onto its stand.
"Gentlemen."
"Our starting eleven."
He glanced briefly at his notes.
"Petr."
"Cech."
The goalkeeper nodded.
"Andrew."
"Robertson."
Robertson looked up.
"Laurent."
"Koscielny."
"Virgil."
"Van Dijk."
"Kyle."
"Walker."
The defender gave a quick thumbs-up.
"N'Golo."
"Kanté."
"Granit."
"Xhaka."
"Mesut."
"Özil."
"Serge."
"Gnabry."
"Alexis."
"Sánchez."
Finally his eyes settled on Francesco.
"And our captain…"
"Francesco."
The striker gave a small nod.
"Ready, boss."
"I know."
Wenger turned the board around.
Blue magnets already formed Manchester City's shape.
"Manchester City."
"Pep has changed things."
He drew everyone's attention to the formation.
"A 4-1-4-1 becoming a 4-1-4-2 when they press."
He pointed individually.
"Ederson."
"Zinchenko."
"Kompany."
"Otamendi."
"Danilo."
"Gündoğan holding."
"In front…"
"Kevin De Bruyne."
"David Silva."
"Leroy Sané."
"Bernardo Silva."
"And Sergio Agüero."
Several players leaned forward.
Wenger continued.
"They'll want the ball."
"As always."
"But remember…"
"They've had very little time to recover emotionally from Wembley."
He looked around the room.
"They're human."
"They're disappointed."
"And disappointment affects concentration."
He tapped the magnetic board.
"We must make them feel uncomfortable immediately."
He pointed toward Özil.
"Mesut."
"Find the spaces around Gündoğan."
Then to Kanté.
"N'Golo."
"Win second balls."
"As many as possible."
Kanté nodded.
"I will."
To Walker and Robertson.
"Support the attack."
"But don't leave yourselves exposed against Sané and Bernardo."
Finally Wenger looked directly at Francesco.
"They'll be watching you closely after Wednesday."
"Use that."
"If two defenders follow you…"
"Someone else becomes free."
Francesco nodded.
"I understand."
The manager folded his arms.
"This is not Wembley."
"This is a league match."
"Different competition."
"Different challenge."
"But the same principles."
"Courage."
"Discipline."
"Together."
He allowed the words to settle before finishing.
"Go and enjoy yourselves."
The tunnel buzzed with nervous anticipation.
Arsenal in red.
Manchester City in sky blue.
Children stood between the players, staring wide-eyed at their heroes.
Francesco shook Kompany's hand.
"Good luck."
"You too."
Pep exchanged a respectful nod with Wenger.
No jokes today.
Only focus.
Michael Oliver checked both assistants before glancing at his watch.
The teams emerged beneath a deafening roar.
The Emirates stood almost entirely on its feet.
Arsenal supporters welcomed their cup winners home with another thunderous ovation.
Francesco walked at the front carrying the captain's responsibilities once again.
He glanced briefly around the stadium.
Then towards the centre circle.
Everything else disappeared.
The whistle sounded.
The match began.
From the opening exchanges, something felt different about Manchester City.
They still moved the ball beautifully.
Still searched patiently for openings.
But there was just the slightest hesitation in their play.
A misplaced pass.
A second touch where normally one would do.
Confidence, once shaken, rarely returned overnight.
Arsenal recognised it immediately.
Alexis pressed relentlessly.
Özil denied Gündoğan time to turn.
Kanté hunted every loose ball.
Walker and Robertson pushed high whenever opportunities appeared.
Inside seventeen minutes, the pressure paid off.
Kanté intercepted a loose pass from David Silva before immediately feeding Xhaka.
One touch.
Then another.
The Swiss midfielder found Özil between City's midfield and defence.
The German lifted his head.
Francesco had already begun moving.
He drifted away from Kompany, then suddenly accelerated across Otamendi's blind side.
Özil saw it instantly.
The through ball was perfectly weighted.
Francesco burst clear.
Ederson charged from his line.
The captain never panicked.
With one composed touch, he guided the ball low across the goalkeeper and into the far corner.
Goal.
Arsenal 1-0 Manchester City.
The Emirates exploded.
Francesco turned towards the North Bank, punching both fists into the air before being swallowed by celebrating teammates.
Alexis arrived first.
"Again!"
Özil smiled quietly.
"I only had to pass."
Francesco pointed back towards him.
"You made it."
High above, the supporters sang their captain's name once more.
Pep immediately left his technical area.
"Wake up!"
"Keep playing!"
His players responded.
They enjoyed more possession over the next ten minutes.
De Bruyne struck narrowly over.
Agüero forced Cech into a comfortable save.
But Arsenal looked dangerous every time they attacked.
Then came the second blow.
Thirty-one minutes.
Bernardo Silva attempted to dribble inside.
Kanté timed his tackle perfectly.
The Frenchman emerged with the ball before driving into open space.
Alexis had already begun his run.
Without hesitation, Kanté threaded a precise pass between Kompany and Danilo.
Alexis reached it in full stride.
One touch.
Then a powerful finish beyond Ederson.
Goal.
Arsenal 2-0 Manchester City.
The Emirates erupted again.
Alexis sprinted towards the corner flag screaming with delight before Francesco leapt onto his back.
Kanté smiled quietly as teammates surrounded him.
Walker laughed.
"Two assists this week?"
Kanté shrugged.
"I suppose."
On the touchline Wenger applauded calmly.
Exactly the response he had wanted.
Across the technical area, Pep clapped loudly toward his own players.
"Come on!"
"Keep believing!"
"One goal changes everything!"
His voice echoed constantly.
He refused to allow heads to drop.
Gradually, Manchester City began responding.
Their passing became quicker.
De Bruyne started finding dangerous pockets of space.
David Silva drifted cleverly between Arsenal's midfield lines.
Sané attacked Walker with greater confidence.
Just before half-time, the momentum finally shifted.
Forty-three minutes.
De Bruyne collected possession nearly thirty yards from goal.
He looked up.
Agüero peeled away from Van Dijk at exactly the right moment.
The Belgian's pass split Arsenal's defence beautifully.
Agüero controlled expertly before firing low beyond Cech.
Goal.
Arsenal 2-1 Manchester City.
Pep clenched both fists.
"There!"
"Again!"
Agüero grabbed the ball immediately from the net before sprinting back towards halfway.
City suddenly believed again.
The final minutes of the half became tense.
Bernardo Silva forced Robertson into an important block.
Özil almost released Francesco on the counter.
Van Dijk headed away a dangerous De Bruyne cross.
Then, at last, Michael Oliver checked his watch.
One sharp whistle.
Half-time.
Arsenal 2-1 Manchester City.
The players disappeared down the tunnel knowing the match remained finely balanced.
Inside the dressing room, heavy breathing filled the air as players reached for towels and water bottles.
Nobody celebrated the lead.
Not yet.
Francesco removed his gloves before sitting quietly, listening as Wenger walked toward the tactics board.
The manager uncapped his marker.
"We're ahead."
He looked around the room.
"But this match is far from finished."
Silence filled the dressing room.
Every player waited.
Heavy breaths filled the dressing room.
Shirts clung to sweat-soaked backs.
Water bottles were passed from one player to another, while the medical staff quickly checked a few minor knocks picked up during the opening forty-five minutes.
Outside, more than sixty thousand supporters continued singing, their voices filtering faintly through the thick concrete walls of the Emirates.
The scoreline read 2-1.
It was a lead.
Nothing more.
Arsène Wenger stood in front of the tactics board with his marker resting loosely between his fingers. He allowed the players another few moments to recover before speaking.
"Good."
His voice was calm.
"Very good."
He looked around the room, making eye contact with every player.
"We have caused them problems."
He tapped the magnetic board.
"But I do not want us protecting this score."
Several players nodded immediately.
Walker smiled to himself.
That sounded exactly like Wenger.
The Frenchman drew two arrows down both flanks.
"They are vulnerable when we move the ball quickly."
"Our full-backs must continue supporting the attack."
He pointed towards Robertson and Walker.
"Do not become hesitant."
"But choose your moments."
Both defenders nodded.
"Yes, boss."
Then Wenger looked toward the midfield.
"Granit."
"N'Golo."
"You've been excellent."
"But I want even more."
He pointed at Manchester City's midfield magnets.
"Force them backwards."
"Don't allow De Bruyne to dictate the rhythm."
"N'Golo…"
Kanté looked up.
"If the ball becomes loose…"
"I expect you to arrive first."
The French midfielder smiled quietly.
"I'll try."
Wenger almost smiled.
"I know you will."
Finally his attention settled on the front three.
"Mesut."
"Alexis."
"Francesco."
"If we score another goal…"
He paused deliberately.
"…or perhaps even two…"
Several players exchanged amused glances.
Wenger wasn't joking.
"…then we change."
He drew another shape.
"We lower the tempo."
"We become patient."
"We invite them forward."
"And then…"
He drew a long arrow into the empty space behind City's defence.
"We counterattack."
The room remained silent.
Everyone understood.
"We do not become reckless."
"We become intelligent."
He looked around once more.
"They are chasing this match."
"Make them chase."
He closed the marker.
"Gentlemen."
"Forty-five minutes."
"Finish the job."
Francesco stood first.
He looked around the dressing room before speaking.
"We've got them where we wanted."
"But they're still Manchester City."
"No shortcuts."
"No switching off."
"Let's finish this together."
"Together," Ramsey echoed from the substitutes' area.
The rest of the squad repeated it.
"Together."
Moments later the players lined up once again inside the tunnel.
The atmosphere felt heavier now.
This wasn't the nervous anticipation before kick-off.
It was something sharper.
The knowledge that one mistake could change everything.
Michael Oliver checked both teams.
"Ready?"
The players nodded.
The whistle sounded.
The second half began.
Manchester City came out aggressively.
Pep Guardiola stood almost permanently at the edge of his technical area, urging every player forward.
"Move it!"
"Quicker!"
"Again!"
The visitors immediately pushed Arsenal deeper.
De Bruyne switched play from one wing to another with effortless precision.
Bernardo Silva drifted between the lines.
Sané attacked Walker with renewed confidence.
Yet Arsenal looked composed.
Exactly as Wenger had asked.
Every interception immediately became an attack.
Every recovery became an opportunity to break.
In the fifty-third minute, Alexis robbed Kompany near the halfway line before driving forward.
His shot flew narrowly wide.
Two minutes later, Robertson's overlapping run forced Danilo into conceding a corner.
The Emirates responded to every attack with growing belief.
Francesco clapped loudly.
"Come on!"
"They're there!"
At the hour mark, Arsenal struck.
It began with patience.
Van Dijk calmly recycled possession back to Xhaka instead of forcing a risky pass.
The Swiss midfielder switched play toward Walker.
Walker immediately found Gnabry down the right wing.
The young German winger looked up.
Zinchenko backed away cautiously.
Francesco drifted between Kompany and Otamendi.
Not sprinting.
Waiting.
Watching.
Then he exploded into space.
Gnabry recognised the movement instantly.
His cross wasn't floated.
It was driven low and hard across the six-yard area.
Francesco arrived perfectly.
One touch.
Right foot.
The ball flashed beyond Ederson before the Brazilian goalkeeper could even react.
The net bulged.
Goal.
Arsenal 3-1 Manchester City.
The Emirates erupted.
The roar rolled around the stadium like thunder.
Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag before sliding onto both knees across the grass.
His teammates caught him almost immediately.
Alexis jumped onto his shoulders.
Walker wrapped both arms around him.
"Brace!"
"I told you!"
Gnabry arrived smiling from ear to ear.
"I just had to find you."
Francesco pulled him into the celebration.
"That ball was perfect."
The young winger laughed.
"You made it look good."
High above them, thousands of Arsenal supporters bounced together.
"Francesco!"
"Francesco!"
"Francesco!"
The captain stood and applauded all four sides of the stadium before pointing toward Gnabry.
The supporters answered with another enormous roar.
On the touchline, Wenger simply folded his arms.
A small smile appeared.
Exactly what he had wanted.
Another goal.
Now the match changed.
Pep refused to surrender.
He clapped furiously.
"Keep going!"
"There's time!"
Manchester City responded with another spell of possession.
Agüero remained dangerous.
De Bruyne continued searching for openings.
Yet Arsenal now looked increasingly comfortable.
Every attack from City met organised resistance.
Van Dijk won header after header.
Koscielny anticipated danger brilliantly.
Cech claimed every cross confidently.
The clock ticked toward seventy minutes.
Wenger glanced toward his bench.
He had seen enough.
"Three changes."
The fourth official raised the electronic board.
Number 9.
Francesco.
Number 11.
Mesut Özil.
Number 27.
Serge Gnabry.
Coming on.
Olivier Giroud.
Santi Cazorla.
Bukayo Saka.
The Emirates rose to its feet.
Francesco applauded every side of the stadium while jogging toward the touchline.
Supporters answered with another standing ovation.
Two goals.
Captain.
Man of the Match once again.
As he reached Wenger, the manager extended his hand.
"Excellent."
Francesco shook it firmly.
"Thank you, boss."
"You followed the plan."
Francesco smiled.
"It worked."
"It usually does."
Beside him, Özil and Gnabry also received warm congratulations before taking their seats.
Young Bukayo Saka took a deep breath before stepping onto the pitch.
Walker immediately jogged across.
"Enjoy it."
The youngster nodded eagerly.
"I will."
Across the opposite technical area, Guardiola also made changes.
David Silva walked off to respectful applause from both sets of supporters.
İlkay Gündoğan followed.
On came Gabriel Jesus.
Then Yaya Touré.
Fresh legs.
Fresh energy.
Pep pointed forward aggressively.
"Everything."
"We attack."
The final twenty minutes became increasingly physical.
City pushed numbers higher.
Arsenal defended compactly before looking for opportunities to counter through Alexis, Giroud and Saka.
Cazorla immediately settled the tempo whenever Arsenal regained possession, drawing fouls and frustrating City's press.
Francesco watched from the bench beside Özil.
"He's slowing everything down."
Özil smiled.
"That's why Santi is Santi."
Seventy-nine minutes.
The match suddenly threatened to boil over.
Xhaka collected possession near the halfway line.
He turned away from pressure.
Yaya Touré arrived late.
Crunch.
The tackle echoed around the Emirates.
Xhaka crashed onto the turf.
The stadium gasped.
For one brief second everything froze.
Then Xhaka leapt to his feet.
"What was that?"
Touré stepped forward.
"I got the ball."
"No, you didn't."
Players from both teams arrived almost instantly.
Walker sprinted across first.
Van Dijk gently placed himself between Xhaka and Touré.
Gabriel Jesus tried calming his teammate.
Alexis stood protectively beside Xhaka.
Voices rose.
Arms pointed.
The crowd roared louder with every passing second.
Michael Oliver blew his whistle repeatedly.
"Enough!"
"Back away!"
Pep was already shouting from one technical area.
Wenger remained composed but called toward his players.
"Calm!"
"Do not react!"
Oliver separated both groups before reaching into his pocket.
Yellow card.
Yaya Touré.
Another yellow.
Granit Xhaka.
The Swiss midfielder shook his head but accepted the decision.
Touré also nodded reluctantly.
Walker leaned toward Xhaka.
"Leave it."
"We're winning."
Xhaka took one long breath.
"You're right."
Van Dijk patted him on the shoulder.
"Focus."
The atmosphere remained tense for several minutes afterwards.
Every challenge was greeted by loud appeals.
Every whistle produced another chorus from the stands.
Yet Arsenal never lost their discipline.
Kanté intercepted another dangerous pass from De Bruyne.
Robertson produced an excellent recovery tackle on Bernardo Silva.
Cech comfortably held Gabriel Jesus' header.
The clock continued moving.
Eighty-five minutes.
Eighty-eight.
Ninety.
The fourth official held up the electronic board.
Four minutes added.
The Emirates collectively urged the team over the finish line.
"Come on Arsenal!"
"Come on Arsenal!"
Francesco stood throughout stoppage time, applauding every clearance from the bench.
"Keep going!"
"Nearly there!"
Giroud won an important free-kick deep inside City's half.
Cazorla calmly kept possession near the corner flag.
Saka chased a lost cause and earned a throw-in.
Little by little, the remaining seconds disappeared.
Michael Oliver checked his watch.
One final glance.
Then three sharp blasts of the whistle.
Full-time.
Arsenal 3-1 Manchester City.
The Emirates exploded once more.
The players immediately embraced one another.
Walker punched the air.
"That's how you answer!"
Alexis hugged Giroud before sprinting toward the supporters.
Van Dijk shook hands respectfully with Agüero.
Pep Guardiola congratulated Wenger warmly.
"Well played."
Wenger smiled.
"Thank you."
"It was an excellent match."
The City manager nodded.
"You deserved it."
Francesco walked onto the pitch from the bench, immediately congratulating every teammate.
He embraced Xhaka first.
"You alright?"
The midfielder nodded.
"I'm fine."
"Just annoyed."
"You kept your head."
"Eventually."
Francesco laughed.
"That's what mattered."
He then found Saka.
"Well done."
The teenager beamed.
"My first league minutes against City."
"You looked fearless."
"Thanks."
The supporters remained on their feet, singing once again.
Francesco gathered the squad together before leading them toward the North Bank.
As captain, he raised both hands.
Every Arsenal player followed.
Together they applauded the supporters.
The supporters responded by singing their captain's name.
The victory meant more than just another three points.
It stretched Arsenal's momentum after their Carabao Cup triumph, reinforced their place near the top of the Premier League table, and proved that Wembley had not been an emotional peak followed by a drop-off.
Instead, they had beaten Manchester City twice in the space of a few days.
One victory had delivered silverware.
The other had strengthened their title challenge.
As Francesco stood with the captain's armband around his arm, applauding a sea of smiling supporters beneath the winter sky, he couldn't help but remember what he had told Leah over breakfast two mornings earlier.
Don't think about four trophies.
Think about the next match.
That next match had now been won.
Only after applauding every corner of the Emirates did the players finally turn toward the tunnel, disappearing beneath the stands with tired legs, another important victory secured, and the belief inside the club growing a little stronger with every passing week.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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, 2016/2017 Champions League, and 2017/2018 Carabao Cup.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 43
Goal: 51
Assist: 6
MOTM: 5
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