125. Daily Training

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After a few more minutes, he finally set his phone aside and lay back against the pillows. The city lights outside flickered softly, and for the first time that night, his body finally allowed itself to relax.

Francesco stirred slightly as the morning light crept through the blinds, casting soft streaks of gold across his bedroom. His body felt heavy, still carrying the lingering weight of yesterday's match, but his mind was already shifting into gear. The routine was ingrained in him—no matter how tired he was, he had work to do.

He blinked a few times, adjusting to the brightness before reaching for his phone. The time read 6:32 AM. A couple of messages sat unread—one from his agent, probably a follow-up about the "opportunities" he had mentioned last night, and another from a teammate in the squad's group chat, sharing a meme about the Sky Sports discussion from the night before.

Francesco smirked, shaking his head as he tossed the phone aside and sat up. His muscles protested, stiff from the previous night's effort, but he rolled his shoulders and pushed himself out of bed. Another day. Another chance to be better.

He made his way to the bathroom, twisting the shower handle until steam began to rise. The hot water hit his skin, easing the dull aches in his legs and back. He stood there for a moment, letting the warmth seep into his muscles, his mind already mapping out the day ahead.

Training was going to be intense. That much was certain. Wenger was the type of manager who never let standards slip. Even after a good performance, there was always something to improve, always a next step.

He lathered up quickly, rinsing off before stepping out and grabbing a towel. As he dried his hair, he caught his own reflection in the mirror—the sharp lines of his jaw, the determined look in his eyes. There was no arrogance in the way he saw himself, only belief.

Confidence without results was arrogance. And arrogance without discipline led to failure.

He wasn't about to let that happen.

Dressed in a simple fitted black t-shirt and athletic joggers, Francesco padded into the kitchen. He wasn't one to eat heavy in the morning—cereal with milk would do just fine. He grabbed a bowl from the cupboard, poured in some cornflakes, and drowned them in cold milk.

The apartment was silent except for the occasional sound of his spoon clinking against the ceramic. Outside, the early morning hum of London had begun—cars rolling down the streets, distant chatter of pedestrians starting their days.

As he ate, his thoughts drifted back to last night's analysis. Roy Keane's words. Francesco wasn't bothered by them, but he understood the truth behind them. One good match didn't mean anything. He had to keep proving himself. Every single day.

Finishing the last bite, he rinsed his bowl, then made his way back to his bedroom.

His black Nike backpack sat in the corner, half-packed from the night before. He double-checked its contents—cleats, training kit, recovery bands, and a couple of protein bars for later. Everything was set.

He grabbed his phone and wallet, tossing them into the side pocket before slinging the bag over his shoulder. With one last glance around his room, he exhaled and stepped out.

The hallway outside his apartment was quiet, the early hour keeping most of his neighbors still in bed. He pressed the elevator button, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder as he waited.

A soft ding announced its arrival, and he stepped in, pressing the button for the ground floor. The mirrored walls reflected his calm but focused expression. His mind was already on the training session.

The elevator doors slid open into the lobby, where the security guard at the front desk, an older man named Dave, glanced up and gave him a nod.

"Morning, lad," Dave greeted.

"Morning," Francesco replied with a small smile before making his way toward the parking garage.

Francesco's Honda Civic Type R sat in his usual spot—sleek, black, nothing too flashy, but with enough power to give him a thrill on the open road. He liked nice things, sure, but he wasn't about to spend his money on ridiculous luxuries.

He unlocked the door, tossed his bag onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. The engine roared to life with a low purr as he backed out and eased onto the street.

The drive to the Arsenal Training Center wasn't long, but it was enough time for him to zone in. He played music at a low volume, something mellow, letting his thoughts settle. Training would be tough. It always was after a match day. Wenger would demand intensity, precision, and focus.

As Francesco pulled into the Arsenal Training Center, the familiar sight of the pristine facility brought a sense of both comfort and anticipation. The towering gates, adorned with the club's emblem, stood as a constant reminder of where he was and what was expected of him. This wasn't just any training ground—it was a place where legends had walked, where every session was a step toward greatness.

He maneuvered his Honda Civic Type R into his usual parking spot, turning off the ignition and taking a moment to breathe. His fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel as he collected his thoughts. The sun was still low in the sky, casting a soft golden hue over the lot, but inside, he knew the intensity was already building.

Grabbing his backpack from the passenger seat, he pushed open the door and stepped out, rolling his shoulders to loosen up as he made his way toward the locker room. His cleats clacked lightly against the pavement as he walked, the crisp morning air filling his lungs. The sound of distant voices and laughter drifted from inside the building—his teammates were already arriving, getting into their routines.

As he stepped through the entrance, the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint aroma of sweat and energy drinks. The walls were lined with framed photos of past and present Arsenal greats, their legacies woven into the very fabric of the club. Francesco barely glanced at them—he wasn't here to admire history. He was here to make it.

The locker room was buzzing with life when he entered. The sound of chatter, zippers being pulled, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the space. A few of the lads were already halfway through changing into their training kits.

Per Mertesacker, the towering German defender, was adjusting the laces on his boots, his long limbs making the task look almost awkward. Despite his imposing height, Per carried himself with an easy grace, his presence both commanding and reassuring.

Across from him, Alexis Sánchez was already in full kit, stretching his legs on the bench, his expression focused. The Chilean was known for his relentless work ethic, always pushing himself to the limit. His intensity was contagious, and Francesco knew today's session wouldn't be any different.

"Morning, lads," Francesco greeted, dropping his bag onto the bench as he unzipped it.

"Ah, finally, the young prodigy arrives," Per teased, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Late night watching your own highlights?"

Francesco chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled out his training kit. "Nah, just making sure Roy Keane has something new to complain about next week."

That earned a few laughs from the room. The Sky Sports pundit had been particularly critical of Arsenal lately, and Francesco's name had come up more than once in his rants. It didn't bother him—if anything, it added fuel to his fire.

Alexis glanced up from his stretching, nodding toward Francesco. "You played well yesterday," he said, his tone serious. "But today? We work harder."

Francesco gave a firm nod. "Always."

He stripped out of his casual wear, swapping it for the familiar red and white of Arsenal's training gear. The lightweight fabric was comfortable, designed for movement, for speed. He laced up his cleats, the feeling grounding him in the moment.

The room continued to fill as more players arrived—Laurent Koscielny, Theo Walcott, Jack Wilshere. Each one carried their own energy, their own expectations for the day. The air was thick with quiet determination.

As Francesco finished tying his boots, the locker room door swung open again, and in walked Arsène Wenger. The moment the manager stepped in, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations died down, and players straightened up instinctively. Wenger didn't demand respect; he commanded it simply by being who he was.

He scanned the room, his sharp eyes taking in each of his players. "Good morning, gentlemen," he greeted, his voice calm but firm. "I hope you are all well-rested because today, we work. Yesterday is finished. Today, we improve."

There were nods all around. Francesco could feel the energy crackling now, the anticipation of what was to come. Training under Wenger was never just about physical effort—it was tactical, precise, a constant lesson in how to be better.

"Out on the pitch in five minutes," Wenger instructed before stepping out.

Francesco exhaled, running a hand through his hair before standing up. He grabbed his water bottle, slinging his towel over his shoulder. Time to get to work.

As they made their way toward the training pitch, the cool morning air contrasted with the warmth of his muscles already beginning to wake up. The field stretched out before them, perfectly maintained, the grass soft underfoot.

The coaching staff was already setting up drills, cones carefully arranged, mini-goals positioned. The goalkeepers were off on their own, working with the keeper coach, while the rest of the squad began their warm-ups.

Francesco fell into line with the others, starting with light jogging, feeling the stiffness in his legs loosen with each stride. The rhythm of training was familiar, comforting in its repetition. High knees, side shuffles, dynamic stretches—each movement preparing them for the intensity ahead.

Then came the ball work. Wenger was big on possession-based drills, always demanding quick passes, sharp movement. They broke into small-sided games, the tempo high, the touches clean. Francesco relished it, his mind locked in, his feet moving instinctively.

Alexis, as expected, was relentless, pressing hard, forcing mistakes. Per, despite his size, was surprisingly nimble in tight spaces. The competition in training was fierce, but that was what made them better.

As the session progressed, Wenger stepped in with corrections, small tactical adjustments. "Francesco, find the space quicker," he called out at one point. "Don't wait for the ball—demand it."

Francesco nodded, adjusting, pushing himself to think faster, move smarter.

Wenger clapped his hands together, drawing the players in. "Alright, enough drills. We'll split into two teams—full-pitch scrimmage. Play with intensity, but play smart."

The squad instinctively gathered closer, forming an uneven semi-circle around their manager. Francesco could feel the anticipation settling in—these scrimmages weren't just practice. They were a statement. A chance to prove something to yourself, your teammates, and, most importantly, to Wenger.

The coaching staff quickly divided them up. Francesco's team had Laurent Koscielny marshalling the defense alongside Héctor Bellerín, Nacho Monreal, and Kieran Gibbs. In midfield, he found himself paired with Santi Cazorla and Francis Coquelin, while the attack was led by Theo Walcott, Olivier Giroud, and himself as a secondary forward. On the other side, Alexis Sánchez, Mesut Özil, and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain formed a dangerous attacking trio, supported by Aaron Ramsey in midfield.

As he jogged to his position, Francesco rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off any remaining stiffness from the morning session. He thrived in these kinds of environments—high intensity, fast-paced, with little room for hesitation.

Wenger raised his voice, "Play with tempo. Use space well. Let's go!"

The whistle blew, and immediately, the game exploded into action.

Francesco's team started in possession, moving the ball quickly through the backline as Koscielny and Kieran Gibbs exchanged passes, looking for an opening. Coquelin dropped deep to collect, scanning the field before switching play to Bellerín on the right. The Spaniard, quick as ever, took off down the flank, with Theo Walcott making a darting run ahead of him.

Francesco stayed central, positioning himself just between Özil and Ramsey, waiting for the moment to receive. The ball came to Cazorla, who had an almost magnetic touch, killing it instantly before rolling it toward Francesco with a subtle flick of his instep.

With his first touch, Francesco turned sharply, immediately feeling Ramsey closing in. Instead of forcing a pass, he shifted his body weight, using a subtle feint to wrong-foot the Welshman before darting forward into space.

There was no time to hesitate.

Francesco threaded a pass through to Giroud, who took a quick touch to lay it off to Walcott. The English winger burst forward, his pace causing immediate problems for the defense. He cut inside and took a shot, but David Ospina reacted quickly, diving to parry it away.

The game had officially come to life.

The intensity ramped up with every passing minute. Özil was orchestrating his side's attack with effortless vision, floating between the lines and slipping in dangerous passes for Alexis and Chamberlain. Francesco, alongside Cazorla and Coquelin, had to stay disciplined, cutting off passing lanes and making sure they weren't outnumbered.

Alexis, as always, was relentless. He pressed high, snapping at defenders, forcing mistakes. At one point, he robbed Monreal near the halfway line and surged forward, only to be met by Koscielny's perfectly timed tackle.

Francesco wasn't just focused on winning his individual duels—he wanted to dictate the game. He kept demanding the ball, kept making himself available, trying to pull the strings in attack.

One moment, in particular, stood out.

After Özil played a beautiful one-touch pass to Ramsey, the Welshman attempted to loft a ball over the defense for Alexis. Francesco read it early, tracking back and cutting it out with a precise interception. Without hesitation, he pushed forward, carrying the ball with speed.

Seeing Giroud peeling away from his marker, Francesco lofted a perfectly weighted pass into his path. The Frenchman took it on his chest, but just as he was about to pull the trigger, Mustafi slid in with a last-ditch block.

The play didn't stop. Chamberlain recovered possession and sprinted forward, launching a quick counterattack.

Francesco turned and sprinted back, covering ground as the opposition stormed forward. The transition was brutal, forcing his team to scramble. Özil slipped a clever pass through to Alexis, who had found space inside the box.

Time slowed for a second.

Alexis took a touch, shaped to shoot—

—Blocked!

Coquelin threw himself in the way, taking the shot straight to his midsection. The ball rebounded awkwardly, bouncing toward Francesco, who instinctively cleared it first-time.

Heart still pounding from the rapid exchange, he exhaled.

Wenger's voice cut through the action. "Better! Quicker transitions! Keep moving!"

The game raged on, neither side giving an inch. Francesco was everywhere—breaking up play, initiating attacks, linking up with Cazorla and Walcott.

As the scrimmage entered its final minutes, one last chance presented itself.

Cazorla picked up possession deep and quickly spotted Francesco making a late run into the box. The Spaniard dinked a perfectly weighted pass over the defense, and Francesco, timing his movement perfectly, controlled it with his chest before striking it cleanly on the half-volley.

Ospina reacted, but he couldn't get there in time.

Goal.

A ripple of applause came from the coaching staff as Francesco jogged back, teammates clapping him on the back. He allowed himself a small smile, but his mind was already racing—already analyzing what could have been better.

The whistle blew shortly after.

Wenger clapped his hands again, bringing everyone together.

"Well done," he said, scanning the group. "Good intensity, good movement. Francesco—excellent awareness on that goal."

Francesco simply nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. He wasn't one to bask in praise. He had done his job. Now, he had to keep doing it.

The session wrapped up, and the squad filtered back to the locker room. Francesco could feel the exhaustion settling in, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind that came from knowing you had pushed yourself.

As he peeled off his damp jersey, he could hear Per Mertesacker chuckling nearby.

"Keane might actually say something nice about you now," the German teased.

Francesco snorted. "Doubt it."

Alexis, walking past, gave him a small nod of approval. "Good game," he said simply.

That meant more than words from any pundit.

After showering and changing into fresh clothes, Francesco grabbed a protein shake from the cafeteria, then made his way out of the facility. The sun had climbed higher now, bathing the grounds in warmth.

As he reached his car, he took a moment to appreciate the stillness. The chaos of training had settled, but in his mind, the work never stopped. There was always another level to reach, another challenge ahead.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the engine and pulled out of the lot, already thinking about the next session.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 17

Goal: 22

Assist: 11

MOTM: 7