The King Of Arsenal

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Tomorrow was another day. Another training session. Another chance to prove himself. And if Arsenal wasn't going for the Champions League this season? Then he'd make damn sure they won everything else.

The soft hum of the city stirred outside, but inside his apartment, it was quiet. Peaceful.

Francesco stirred awake as the early morning sunlight slipped through the gaps in his blinds. His body felt heavy—last night's match still lingering in his muscles—but years of discipline had trained him to wake up early no matter what. He blinked a few times before turning over, rubbing his face with both hands.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table, checking the time. 7:00 AM. Training started in a few hours, which gave him just enough time to wake up properly, eat, and head to the training center.

With a low groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, rolling his shoulders. His body ached, but it was a good kind of soreness—the kind that reminded him he had given everything on the pitch.

He stood up, running a hand through his messy hair before heading toward the bathroom.

The cold tiles under his feet sent a small shiver up his spine, but he ignored it as he stepped into the shower, turning the water to a warm, steady stream. The moment the water hit his skin, he sighed in relief, letting it wash away the last remnants of sleep.

As he stood there, he replayed last night's conversation with Wenger in his head. The disappointment was still there, but this morning, it wasn't as sharp. He couldn't change the decision, but he could make sure Arsenal dominated in every other competition.

Finishing up, he grabbed a towel and dried off before heading to his wardrobe. He pulled on a plain black t-shirt and some comfortable sweatpants before making his way to the kitchen.

His stomach rumbled. Breakfast first.

Francesco opened the refrigerator, grabbing a fresh carton of milk before heading to the cabinets to retrieve a bowl and a box of cereal. He didn't usually eat anything too heavy in the morning, especially on training days—cereal and milk were quick, easy, and enough to keep him fueled until the team's scheduled meals at the training center.

He poured the cereal into the bowl, followed by the milk, and sat down at the kitchen island. The first bite was cold and refreshing, waking him up properly.

As he ate, he scrolled through his phone. Messages from friends, teammates, a few unread emails. He skimmed through a couple of headlines about last night's match before tossing his phone onto the counter.

After finishing his breakfast, he rinsed the bowl and set it in the sink before heading back to his room.

Now for the essentials.

He grabbed his backpack from the corner of the room and started packing:

• A pair of clean training clothes—jersey, shorts, socks.

• A fresh set of sweatpants and a hoodie for after training.

• His hat, a black baseball cap he always wore on the way to training.

• His wireless headphones.

Satisfied, he zipped up the bag, slung it over one shoulder, and grabbed his car keys from the nightstand.

One last glance around the apartment—everything was in place.

Time to go.

Francesco took the elevator down to the parking garage, the doors sliding open with a soft ding. The underground lot was quiet at this hour, with only a few other cars parked near the exit.

His Civic sat in its usual spot, sleek and unassuming, its black paint gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights. He liked this car—not too flashy, but still powerful.

Unlocking it with a quick beep, he slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. The dashboard lights flickered to life, and the low growl of the turbocharged motor filled the garage.

He pulled out, taking the ramp up to street level before merging into the light morning traffic.

London was slowly waking up. Pedestrians on the sidewalks, cyclists weaving between cars, the occasional double-decker bus making its stops. Francesco kept one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absentmindedly against the gear stick as he navigated through the familiar streets.

Music played softly from the speakers—some mellow R&B track that fit the early morning vibe.

His mind drifted back to training. The session today would be intense, no doubt. Wenger wouldn't ease up just because they had played a match last night. Recovery drills, tactical work, maybe even a full team meeting about the upcoming fixtures.

Francesco was ready for it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the Arsenal Training Center's parking lot. Other cars were already there—some of his teammates must have arrived earlier.

He parked in his usual spot, turned off the engine, and stepped out, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

A new day. A new challenge.

He took a deep breath, looking up at the Arsenal crest on the training facility's entrance.

Time to work.

Inside the Training Center

The moment Francesco stepped through the doors, the familiar buzz of activity greeted him. Players and staff moved around the facility—some heading toward the locker rooms, others already in the gym. The scent of fresh-cut grass from the pitches outside mixed with the faint aroma of coffee from the cafeteria.

He made his way down the hallway toward the locker room, where most of the team was already gathered.

Inside, the atmosphere was lively. Conversations, laughter, the occasional sound of boots being tossed into lockers.

"Morning, Francesco," a voice called.

He turned to see Aaron Ramsey tying his boots on one of the benches.

"Morning, Rambo," Francesco replied, setting his backpack down in his usual spot.

Across the room, Giroud was stretching, talking animatedly to Walcott and Bellerín about something. The Frenchman caught Francesco's eye and smirked.

"Hey, kid. You still mad about last night?"

Francesco shook his head with a small smile. "Nah. Just ready to win everything else."

"That's the spirit," Giroud chuckled.

Mertesacker walked in a moment later, clapping his hands together. "Alright, boys, let's get moving. Warm-up starts in ten minutes."

Francesco changed into his training gear, lacing up his boots with practiced efficiency. The soreness in his legs had faded, replaced by the familiar itch to get back on the pitch.

As he pulled on his training top, he caught Alexis Sánchez watching him from across the room.

"Ready?" Alexis asked.

Francesco smirked. "Always."

The session started with light warm-ups—jogging, stretching, mobility drills. Then came possession exercises, small-sided games, and tactical drills.

Wenger was as sharp as ever, watching closely, giving instructions, stopping play to correct movements or positioning.

Francesco was locked in. Every touch, every pass, every sprint—he pushed himself, determined to prove a point.

They might not be going for the Champions League, but that didn't mean they would settle for anything less than dominance.

The highlight of the session came during a small-sided match. Francesco received the ball just outside the box, flicked it past a defender with a deft touch, and rifled a shot into the top corner.

A few teammates whistled in appreciation.

"Save some of that for the weekend," Mertesacker joked.

Francesco just grinned, jogging back into position.

By the time training wrapped up, sweat dripped from his forehead, his jersey sticking to his back. But it felt good. He thrived on this.

As the players began filtering back toward the locker room, Wenger called out.

"Francesco, a word?"

He turned, jogging over to where the manager stood near the sideline.

Wenger studied him for a moment before speaking. "You trained well today. Focused."

"Always," Francesco replied.

Wenger gave a small nod. "I know you're not happy about the Champions League decision. But your attitude today shows me something important."

Francesco didn't respond right away. He just met Wenger's gaze and nodded.

"Keep this up," Wenger continued. "And we'll win everything else."

A slow smile spread across Francesco's face.

"That's the plan, boss."

As he walked back toward the locker room, he felt lighter. Stronger.

Francesco wiped the sweat from his brow as he stepped into the locker room, the familiar scent of damp jerseys and deodorant filling the air. The room was buzzing—players peeling off their training gear, some already heading toward the showers, others just taking a moment to catch their breath.

Aaron Ramsey was leaning back on a bench, chugging water from a bottle before exhaling sharply. "Hell of a session today," he muttered, rubbing his calves.

Francesco dropped his bag by his usual spot, stretching his arms as he glanced around. Giroud was in the corner, laughing about something with Theo Walcott. Bellerín sat with his head tilted back, eyes closed, his chest still rising and falling from exertion. Across the room, Alexis Sánchez was unwrapping the tape from his wrists, nodding slightly when their eyes met.

Before Francesco could sit down, he heard footsteps behind him. Wenger had followed him in.

The locker room quieted slightly as the manager cleared his throat.

"Listen up, everyone." Wenger's voice carried easily through the space, commanding attention without the need to shout. "After you're done showering, I want everyone in the tactics room. We have a new approach to discuss for our next matches."

A few groans echoed around the room—good-natured ones, but groans nonetheless. Training had already been intense, and the idea of diving straight into a tactical meeting wasn't the most exciting prospect.

Francesco, however, perked up. He wasn't one to complain about extra work. If anything, he welcomed it.

Giroud, still stretching, let out a theatrical sigh. "Boss, at least let me enjoy my shower first."

Wenger gave him a small smile. "Take your time, Olivier. Just don't let it be another of your fashion runway routines in there."

Laughter rippled through the squad as Giroud smirked, raising his hands in mock surrender. "What can I say? Looking this good takes effort."

The mood lightened, and with that, Wenger gave a small nod before stepping out, leaving the players to clean up.

Francesco peeled off his damp shirt, rolling his shoulders as the tension in his muscles slowly started to ease. He grabbed his towel and toiletries before heading toward the showers, weaving past his teammates.

The shower area was filled with steam, the sound of running water echoing off the tiled walls. Francesco stepped under one of the streams, letting the warm water soothe his sore muscles.

"Another meeting," Ramsey muttered from the next stall, running a hand through his wet hair. "Wenger's really pushing us this season."

Francesco tilted his head back under the water, eyes closed. "He should. We need to be perfect."

"Yeah, but man, I could use a nap first," Walcott groaned from a few stalls over.

Alexis chuckled. "You'll sleep when we lift the trophy."

The conversation trailed off into comfortable silence, the only sound remaining being the water cascading down. Francesco took his time, knowing they'd be locked into analysis soon enough.

Freshly showered and dressed in team-issued sweats, Francesco made his way to the tactics room alongside the others.

The room was a familiar space—large, with a projector screen at the front and whiteboards filled with diagrams of formations, arrows crisscrossing in various directions. The coaching staff was already present, along with a few analysts who had been preparing video clips.

Wenger stood at the front, arms crossed, waiting for the last of the players to take their seats. Once everyone was settled, he gestured toward the screen, and a clip from their last match flickered to life.

"We played well yesterday," Wenger began, his voice measured. "But 'well' is not enough if we want to win everything else."

The clip showed moments from the game—some good, some less so. Francesco watched as his own movements appeared on the screen. A sharp pass here, a clever turn there—but also a missed opportunity in the final third, a defensive gap that could have been exploited.

Wenger pointed to a freeze-frame. "This is where we need to improve. We're controlling possession well, but we're not making the most of it. Our build-up play needs more precision. Francesco, you're doing well in transition, but I want you taking more risks in the final third. Trust your instincts."

Francesco nodded, absorbing the feedback. He already knew what Wenger was talking about—there had been moments where he hesitated, choosing the safe pass instead of the killer ball. That wasn't good enough.

The discussion continued, moving from defensive shape to pressing triggers. Wenger's philosophy was clear—fluid football, control, and ruthlessness in front of goal.

As the meeting stretched on, players chimed in with observations, debating minor tactical details. This was one of Francesco's favorite parts—diving into the fine margins that separated good teams from great ones.

After nearly an hour, Wenger finally closed his notebook. "That's all for today. I expect to see these adjustments on the pitch in the next session."

The squad stood, some stretching, others already heading for the exit. Francesco lingered for a moment, rewatching one of the clips as the analysts reset the screen.

"Still thinking about the game?"

He turned to see Alexis beside him, arms crossed.

Francesco exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Just replaying a few things in my head."

Alexis nodded. "That's good. Shows you care."

Francesco smirked. "Of course I care. We're winning this thing."

Alexis gave a rare grin, clapping a hand on his shoulder before heading out.

As Francesco finally made his way out of the tactics room, he felt more locked in than ever. The sting of missing out on the Champions League hadn't vanished, but it had transformed into something else—motivation.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 18

Goal: 23

Assist: 12

MOTM: 7