The King Of Arsenal

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As night fell, Francesco climbed into bed, his mind still buzzing with excitement. He knew the real work would start tomorrow, but for now, he allowed himself a moment to dream—to picture himself scoring the winning goal against Monaco, to hear the roar of the Arsenal faithful, to feel the weight of the Champions League trophy in his hands. Football was round, as they said. But Francesco was ready to make it roll in Arsenal's favor.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through Francesco's bedroom window, pulling him from a deep sleep. His alarm clock hadn't even gone off yet, but the excitement coursing through him from last night's Champions League draw was enough to wake him early. Stretching, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. Today was a new day, and training awaited.

After a quick shower, Francesco made his way downstairs. The smell of coffee and freshly toasted bread wafted through the house, a comforting reminder of mornings at home.

"Morning, Mom," Francesco said, entering the kitchen to find Sarah already bustling about. She was plating scrambled eggs while his dad, Mike, sat at the table reading the sports section of the newspaper.

"Morning, sweetheart," Sarah said with a smile. "Eggs are almost ready. Sit down, and I'll get your plate."

"Thanks," Francesco replied, grabbing a glass of orange juice from the counter before taking a seat. He glanced at the newspaper Mike was holding, which featured a bold headline: "Arsenal Avoids Bayern, Draws Monaco in Round of 16."

Mike looked up, catching Francesco's eye. "Looks like the papers are just as relieved as we are," he said with a chuckle.

Francesco grinned. "I bet Wenger's still smiling about it too. But we can't get complacent. Monaco's young, hungry, and they'll be out to prove something."

Mike nodded, setting the paper down. "Good mindset. Never underestimate the underdog."

Sarah placed a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon in front of Francesco and kissed the top of his head. "Eat up. You'll need the energy for training."

"Thanks, Mom." Francesco dug in, the warmth of the meal grounding him before what he knew would be an intense day.

Once breakfast was done, Francesco grabbed his training bag, slung it over his shoulder, and wheeled his bicycle out of the garage. "See you later!" he called to his parents as he pedaled down the driveway and onto the quiet streets.

The ride to Arsenal Training Centre was one of Francesco's favorite parts of the day. It gave him a chance to clear his mind and focus on the tasks ahead. The crisp morning air filled his lungs as he navigated the familiar route, the excitement of the Champions League draw still buzzing in his chest.

When he arrived at the training ground, the parking lot was already filling with the sleek cars of his teammates. Francesco parked his bike near the entrance and jogged toward the facility, his training bag bouncing against his back.

Near the entrance, a group of players was stepping out of their cars. Theo Walcott was chatting animatedly with Jack Wilshere, while Alexis Sanchez leaned against his car, scrolling through his phone. As Francesco approached, Theo spotted him and waved.

"Morning, Francesco!" Theo called. "You ready for Monaco?"

"Morning, Theo," Francesco replied with a grin. "Always ready. What about you?"

"More than ready," Theo said, slinging an arm around Jack's shoulders as they all walked toward the locker room. "Honestly, though, I'm just glad we didn't get Bayern again. Monaco's a decent draw, don't you think?"

Jack nodded, adjusting the strap of his own bag. "Yeah, but they're no pushovers. They've got that young kid in midfield—what's his name? Lemar. He's quick and tricky."

Alexis, catching up with the group, chimed in. "Lemar's good, but he's not the only one. They've got pace on the wings and some solid defenders. We'll need to be sharp."

Francesco listened, absorbing his teammates' insights as they made their way into the building. The locker room was already buzzing with energy as players greeted one another, some discussing the draw, others talking about their plans for the weekend. Francesco headed to his locker, pulling out his training kit and quickly changing.

As he tied his boots, Per Mertesacker, Arsenal's towering captain, clapped him on the shoulder. "Big game coming up, Francesco. How are you feeling about Monaco?"

"Confident," Francesco said, glancing up at Per. "But I know it won't be easy. They've got nothing to lose, and that makes them dangerous."

Per nodded approvingly. "Good attitude. Keep that focus, and we'll do fine."

Once everyone was ready, the team headed out to the training pitch. Wenger and his coaching staff were already waiting, cones and markers set up for drills. The manager greeted them with his usual calm demeanor, but there was a glint in his eye—a sign that he was already thinking several steps ahead.

"Morning, gentlemen," Wenger began, his voice carrying across the group. "As you know, our Champions League draw has been decided. Monaco will be our opponents. While this is a favorable matchup, we cannot afford to underestimate them. They are quick, creative, and disciplined. We must prepare thoroughly."

The players nodded in unison, the seriousness of Wenger's tone setting the mood for the session. Training kicked off with warm-ups, followed by passing drills and tactical exercises. Wenger emphasized quick transitions and tight defensive organization, knowing these would be crucial against Monaco's style of play.

During a break, Francesco found himself paired with Alexis for a one-on-one shooting drill. The Chilean's intensity was contagious, and Francesco pushed himself to match Alexis's precision and power.

"Nice shot," Alexis said after Francesco curled one into the top corner.

"Thanks," Francesco replied, panting slightly. "Trying to keep up with you."

Alexis grinned. "You're doing more than keeping up. Keep that up, and Monaco won't know what hit them."

By the end of the session, Francesco was drenched in sweat but felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The team was clicking, their focus sharp, and the energy was palpable. As they gathered for a team talk, Wenger addressed them once more.

The team huddled together near the training pitch as Arsène Wenger, ever composed and meticulous, stood before them. Despite the satisfaction of a productive session, his expression remained focused. The glint of ambition in his eyes told them there was still more work to do.

"Gentlemen," Wenger began, his voice steady but authoritative. "Today was a good start as we think ahead to Monaco. But let me remind you—Monaco is in February. Right now, we are in December, and our next match is against Queens Park Rangers. That is where your focus must be."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group as players exchanged glances. Wenger continued, his gaze sweeping across the team.

"QPR may not be a big name like Bayern or Barcelona, but don't be fooled. They're scrappy, they fight hard, and they'll come to make life difficult for us. Especially given it's the day after Christmas, their players will want to put on a show for their fans. We must be ready for that challenge. I'll need your complete focus on this game. Forget the Champions League for now."

He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. "Take a shower, change into your training suits, and meet me in the meeting room in twenty minutes. We'll go over QPR's strengths, weaknesses, and our game plan. Dismissed."

The players nodded, the light chatter and post-training laughter replaced with a more serious energy. They dispersed toward the locker room, their minds shifting gears from the glitz of European football to the grind of the Premier League.

---

Francesco walked alongside Theo and Jack toward the showers, a towel draped over his shoulder. Theo glanced at him, smirking.

"Big man Wenger is not messing around, huh?" Theo joked, his voice low. "Talking about QPR like they're Real Madrid."

Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "That's why he's the boss, though. Keeps us sharp no matter who we're playing. Besides, didn't QPR give us trouble last season?"

Jack nodded, stepping into the shower stall next to them. "Yeah, they parked the bus like madmen. Took a late header from Giroud to get us the win. Can't take them lightly."

The water hissed as the showers came to life, steam rising to fill the locker room. Francesco let the hot water wash over him, soothing his tired muscles. He replayed Wenger's words in his mind, committing them to memory. Every game mattered, no matter the opponent.

---

Freshly showered and dressed in their training suits, the players made their way to the meeting room. Francesco entered to find the coaching staff already setting up a projector and whiteboard at the front of the room. The air smelled faintly of coffee, a few cups lined up on the side table for anyone who needed an extra jolt.

He found a seat near the front, wedged between Per Mertesacker and Alexis Sanchez. Theo and Jack were just behind him, whispering and trying not to draw attention to themselves as they speculated about the starting lineup for QPR.

Wenger entered a few moments later, his demeanor calm but purposeful. The room fell silent immediately.

"Good," Wenger said, taking a sip from a cup of tea before setting it down. "Let's begin."

He gestured toward the screen, which displayed a lineup graphic for Queens Park Rangers.

"QPR, as we all know, are not currently at the top of the table. But do not let that fool you. They've got a few key players who can hurt us if we're not disciplined. Let's start with their striker, Charlie Austin."

The screen switched to a clip of Austin scoring a header against another Premier League side. Wenger pointed at the image.

"Austin is clinical in the air. He's not the fastest, but he knows how to find space and finish. Laurent, Per—I'll need you two to stay close to him at all times, especially during set pieces. Don't give him an inch."

Per nodded, his calm expression suggesting he was already strategizing.

"Next, their wingers. Niko Kranjcar and Eduardo Vargas," Wenger continued. Another clip played, showing Vargas cutting inside to curl a shot into the far corner.

"They're quick, and they like to exploit space. Héctor and Nacho, you'll need to stay compact and not let them isolate you one-on-one. But," Wenger added, his voice firm, "if we play as a unit, they will struggle to break us down."

The players nodded, the room filled with quiet concentration as Wenger went through QPR's recent games, breaking down their defensive setups, attacking patterns, and vulnerabilities.

"Now," he said, stepping back from the screen and folding his arms, "here is how we will approach the game. First and foremost, we will control the midfield. Mesut, Santi—you two will be key in dictating the tempo. Flamini, your energy and ability to recover the ball will be vital here. Close down their midfielders quickly. Don't give them time to breathe."

Flamini straightened in his seat, nodding as Wenger addressed him.

"Our fullbacks will push high to provide width, but I want discipline at the back. Laurent and Per, make sure we're not caught out on the counter. Patience is key here. QPR will sit deep and try to frustrate us, but if we stay calm and move the ball quickly, we will break them down."

Wenger's voice grew firmer as he drove his point home. "We've worked hard to get into the top four. One slip-up, and it can all come undone. Stay focused, stay sharp, and give me everything you have."

He paused, scanning the room. "Any questions?"

There were none. The team was locked in, their focus mirroring Wenger's intensity.

"Good. Training resumes tomorrow morning. Enjoy your evening, but remember—preparation starts now. Dismissed."

The team filed out of the meeting room, the atmosphere charged with focus and quiet determination. Wenger's instructions had sunk in deeply, and everyone knew what was expected of them. Out in the parking lot, players began dispersing to their cars, exchanging casual goodbyes before heading home for the evening.

"See you tomorrow, Francesco," Theo called out, tossing his keys into the air before catching them with a grin.

"Yeah, take it easy, mate," Jack added, giving him a fist bump.

Francesco waved them off, adjusting the strap of his training bag as he made his way to his bike. The evening air was cool and crisp, a light breeze brushing against his face as he hopped onto the saddle. He tightened his gloves, pushed off the pavement, and started pedaling toward home.

The ride was peaceful, with the golden glow of streetlights lining the quiet streets. The hum of his tires on the asphalt and the rhythmic push of his legs gave him a sense of calm. His mind wandered briefly back to the meeting—Wenger's breakdown of QPR's tactics, the emphasis on focus and patience. It all played in his head like a loop, fueling his determination for the match.

As he approached his neighborhood, he noticed his dad's car parked in the driveway, the headlights off but still faintly warm from the drive home. A smile tugged at his lips. His dad, Mike, was usually tied up at work until late, so seeing the car was a welcome surprise.

Francesco wheeled his bike into the garage, secured it in its usual spot, and walked to the front door. The familiar scent of home greeted him immediately—something savory simmering in the kitchen mixed with the faint, comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee.

"Hey, I'm home!" Francesco called as he stepped inside, setting his bag down near the staircase.

"In here, kiddo," Mike's voice came from the dining room.

Francesco walked in to find his dad seated at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, the day's newspaper folded neatly beside him. Mike looked up and smiled, his expression warm but tinged with the fatigue of a long day.

"Good to see you," Mike said, motioning for Francesco to take a seat.

"Hey, Dad," Francesco replied, pulling out a chair. His eyes flicked to the kitchen, where his mom, Sarah, was busy stirring something on the stove. She glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a quick smile.

"Dinner's almost ready, sweetheart," Sarah said. "How was training?"

"Intense," Francesco said, leaning back in his chair. "Wenger's already got us thinking about QPR. He doesn't want us getting distracted by the Champions League."

Mike chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. "That's Wenger for you. Always focused on the next step. Smart man."

Francesco nodded, propping his elbows on the table. "He broke down their lineup and tactics today. Charlie Austin, Vargas, Kranjcar—all threats if we're not careful. He's got us working on midfield control and patience."

Mike raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Sounds like you're in good hands. You feeling ready for it?"

"Yeah," Francesco said, a determined edge to his voice. "We've got the quality to handle them. It's just about executing the plan."

Sarah appeared from the kitchen, a serving dish in her hands. "Well, you won't be executing anything on an empty stomach. Dinner's ready!"

She set the dish down, revealing a hearty lasagna that smelled as good as it looked. Francesco's stomach growled in anticipation as Sarah returned with a salad bowl and a basket of garlic bread.

"Smells amazing, Mom," Francesco said, grabbing a plate.

"Thanks, sweetheart. You need the fuel with all the running around you do," Sarah replied, ruffling his hair affectionately before sitting down.

The three of them dug in, the warmth of the meal wrapping Francesco in a sense of home. The lasagna was rich and flavorful, and the salad added a refreshing crunch. Conversation flowed easily, mostly about Mike's day at work and Sarah's trip to the market earlier.

"So," Mike said after a while, leaning back in his chair. "Any plans for Christmas? Or are you stuck with training?"

Francesco shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "We've got a light session on Christmas Eve, but Christmas Day is off. It's right back to it the day after, though—QPR on Boxing Day."

Mike nodded thoughtfully. "Well, make the most of Christmas. Take a breather. You've earned it."

"I will," Francesco promised.

After dinner, he helped his mom clear the table, stacking dishes in the sink while she rinsed them. It was a small routine, but one he cherished—it reminded him of how much his parents supported him, even in the smallest ways.

Once the kitchen was tidied up, Francesco headed upstairs to his room. He dropped onto his bed, kicking off his shoes and letting out a contented sigh. His body was tired, but it was the good kind of tired—the kind that came from hard work and knowing he was getting closer to his goals.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages, responding to a few texts from friends and teammates before setting an alarm for the next morning. As his eyelids grew heavier, his thoughts drifted to the pitch, the roar of the crowd, and the feeling of the ball at his feet.

This was his dream, and every day—whether it was Champions League nights or Premier League grinds—brought him closer to making it a reality. With that comforting thought, Francesco let himself drift off to sleep, ready to face whatever the next day would bring.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 3

Goal: 6

Assist: 1

MOTM: 2