126. Againts QPR PT.1

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

The days passed quickly, training sessions blending into each other as Arsenal prepared for their upcoming fixture. Every drill, every tactical meeting, every recovery session—it all built up to matchday.

And now, it was here.

March 4, 2015

Matchday: Queens Park Rangers vs. Arsenal (Away)

The morning air was crisp as Francesco drove his Honda Civic Type R toward the Arsenal Training Center. The streets of London were just starting to wake up, but his mind was already locked in. The previous few days had been a blur of tactical meetings, video analysis, and intense training. Wenger had emphasized the importance of staying sharp—QPR might not be the biggest threat in the league, but Loftus Road was never an easy place to play.

As he pulled into the facility, he spotted a few of his teammates' cars already in the lot—Per Mertesacker's black Range Rover, Alexis Sánchez's Bentley, and Santi Cazorla's sleek Audi. Francesco maneuvered into his usual parking space, turned off the ignition, and took a deep breath. This was it. Another matchday. Another opportunity to prove himself.

Grabbing his duffel bag from the passenger seat, he stepped out, adjusting his tracksuit as he made his way toward the players' lounge. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air as he entered, the lounge already buzzing with quiet conversation. A few players were scattered around—Jack Wilshere scrolling through his phone, Kieran Gibbs chatting with Héctor Bellerín, while Giroud was sipping an espresso, looking as relaxed as ever.

Francesco dropped his bag onto one of the couches and sat down, stretching his legs out in front of him. The lounge had a calm energy—some players preferred to stay locked in their thoughts, others joked around to ease the tension. Francesco was somewhere in between. He liked the anticipation, the buildup before stepping onto the pitch.

"Morning, mate," Theo Walcott greeted, dropping into the seat next to him. "Ready for tonight?"

Francesco nodded, cracking his knuckles absentmindedly. "Yeah. Should be a tough one, but I'm feeling good."

Theo smirked. "Better be. QPR love to make things ugly."

Before Francesco could respond, the door swung open, and in walked Arsène Wenger, followed by the rest of the coaching staff. The room quieted slightly as everyone instinctively straightened up. Even in a relaxed setting, Wenger's presence commanded respect.

The Frenchman scanned the room, his sharp eyes taking in each player before he spoke. "Good morning, everyone. I hope you are well-rested. Today is another challenge, another step in our journey. Queens Park Rangers will not make it easy for us. They are physical, direct, and will fight for every ball. We must match their intensity but play to our strengths."

He paused, letting his words settle before continuing. "We leave in fifteen minutes. Make sure you have everything you need."

With that, Wenger stepped aside, allowing the coaching staff to go over final details. Some players went to grab a last-minute coffee, others took a moment to mentally prepare.

Francesco leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. He had played in some big games already this season, but each match still carried its own weight. He wasn't just playing for Arsenal—he was playing for his place in the team, for his own ambitions.

Soon, it was time to go.

The squad gathered their belongings and made their way toward the team bus parked outside. The vehicle gleamed under the soft morning light, Arsenal's emblem proudly displayed on its side. A few fans had gathered near the entrance of the training ground, some waving scarves, others holding up phones to capture the moment.

Francesco climbed aboard, taking his usual seat near the middle. The bus had a quiet hum of conversation as players settled in. Some put on headphones, others talked strategy. Per Mertesacker and Laurent Koscielny discussed defensive positioning, while Cazorla and Ramsey joked about the cold weather.

Francesco glanced out the window as the bus pulled away from the training center. The streets of London passed by in a blur, but his mind was solely on the game ahead. He could already picture the small, compact Loftus Road Stadium, the tight pitch, the hostile crowd. QPR would come at them with everything they had.

As the team bus rolled through the city, Wenger stood up, facing his squad.

"Remember," he said, his voice steady but firm. "We do not play their game. We play our game."

The journey to Loftus Road was relatively short, but the atmosphere inside the bus remained focused. Conversations were minimal now—some players sat back with their headphones on, visualizing the game ahead, while others stared out the window, lost in their thoughts. Francesco did a little of both. He had already run through various scenarios in his mind, picturing himself making decisive passes, breaking through the midfield press, and creating chances for the team.

As they pulled into the stadium grounds, the players caught their first glimpse of Loftus Road—small, compact, and right on top of the pitch. The crowd would be loud, the game would be intense, and QPR would be aggressive. Francesco thrived in these conditions. He loved the challenge.

The team bus came to a halt, and one by one, the players filed out. A handful of fans had gathered near the entrance, braving the chilly London evening to catch a glimpse of the team. Some called out names, others waved Arsenal scarves, hoping for a quick acknowledgment. Francesco kept his head down and stayed focused, but as he walked past, he gave a quick nod to a young boy wearing an Arsenal jersey with his name on the back. The kid's face lit up instantly, and that small moment reminded him of why he played this game—to inspire.

Inside the stadium, the players made their way to the locker room. The space was tight but functional, a stark contrast to the luxury of the Emirates Stadium. Francesco placed his bag down and sat on the bench, glancing at his teammates. Some were already in their routines—Giroud stretching his legs, Coquelin taping up his ankles, and Alexis meticulously tying his boots, his face already locked in focus.

"Alright, let's get ready for warm-ups," one of the coaches called out.

The players changed into their training kits—red Arsenal tops and black shorts—before heading out onto the pitch. The floodlights shone brightly as they stepped onto the grass, the stadium slowly filling up with fans. Even in warm-ups, Francesco could feel the intensity in the air.

The warm-up session lasted about an hour, a structured routine designed to get the players physically and mentally ready.

First came the physical warm-up—light jogging, dynamic stretching, and quick sprints to loosen up the muscles. Then, they moved into dribbling drills, keeping the ball tight while weaving through cones. Wenger always emphasized sharp, precise touches, even in the simplest drills.

After that, it was passing and shooting. The midfielders and wingers took turns working on quick one-touch combinations before firing shots at goal. Francesco enjoyed this part. He worked with Cazorla and Özil on quick exchanges before curling shots toward the net. Some hit the target, others flew wide, but the rhythm was what mattered.

Meanwhile, the defenders practiced clearances and positioning, while Coquelin focused on his defensive movements, cutting off passing lanes and closing down space.

As the session wrapped up, the players did a final round of sprints before gathering near the bench. They were sweating now, their bodies fully engaged, their minds sharp.

"Good work," one of the coaches called. "Inside now—let's get changed."

The team made their way back into the locker room, where fresh kits were already laid out for them. Francesco peeled off his training top, his muscles still buzzing from the warm-up, before pulling on the official match jersey. The Arsenal crest sat proudly on his chest, the Premier League patch on the sleeve a constant reminder of the level they were playing at.

The locker room was silent now, all eyes on Wenger as he stood in the center, his presence commanding the room. He had been here countless times before, but his speeches never felt rehearsed—they were always measured, always filled with quiet intensity.

"Tonight, we stick to our principles," he began. "Loftus Road is not an easy place to play. They will press us, they will be physical, and they will try to disrupt our rhythm. Do not let them. We are Arsenal. We play our football."

He turned to the whiteboard, where the formation was already drawn up.

"We are going with a 4-1-4-1. David is in goal," he started, nodding at Ospina, who gave a small nod in return.

"The back four—Kieran on the left, Hector on the right, with Per and Gabriel in the center."

Mertesacker, the captain for the night, nodded in understanding. His leadership would be crucial.

"Francis, you will sit in front of the defense. Protect them, break up play, keep it simple."

Coquelin cracked his knuckles, his face showing his usual determination.

"Santi and Mesut in the middle," Wenger continued. "Control the tempo, link the play, keep the ball moving."

Özil and Cazorla exchanged looks, already on the same wavelength.

"On the left, Alexis. On the right, Tomas," Wenger said, glancing at Rosický, who was getting his wrist tape adjusted.

"And up top, Olivier."

Giroud ran a hand through his hair, focused as ever.

Wenger then gestured toward the substitutes. "Emi, Calum, Laurent, Alex, Aaron, Theo, and Tomas—be ready. We will need you."

The team nodded in unison.

Wenger took a deep breath. "We play as a unit. Defend together, attack together. Show intelligence, show fight. Let's go."

With that, the players rose from their seats, a collective energy now filling the room. Francesco took a final deep breath, his mind already racing through what lay ahead.

This was it. Another game, another battle.

As they stepped out of the locker room and into the tunnel, the noise from the stands grew louder. Francesco could feel the adrenaline building. The referee signaled for them to enter the pitch. Showtime.

The moment the players stepped onto the pitch, the roar of the Loftus Road crowd engulfed them. The small, compact stadium felt even tighter under the floodlights, with QPR's supporters packed close to the touchlines, their voices relentless. The tension in the air was palpable—this was never going to be an easy game.

Francesco took his position in the midfield, adjusting his armband slightly as he scanned the opposition. QPR lined up aggressively, their midfielders already itching to press high. Their intent was clear from the first whistle: disrupt Arsenal's passing rhythm, make things physical, and feed their forwards with long balls. Arsenal, on the other hand, aimed to impose their own game—quick, precise passes, moving the ball fluidly from back to front.

The referee blew his whistle, and Olivier Giroud tapped the ball back to Cazorla, who immediately shifted it to Özil. Within seconds, QPR's midfielders swarmed forward, pressing hard. Francesco dropped back slightly, offering an outlet, but Arsenal's opening passes had to be sharp under pressure.

The first few minutes set the tone—QPR's midfield was relentless, closing down every inch of space. Arsenal, to their credit, remained composed, moving the ball patiently despite the intensity.

Then, the first real chance of the game arrived.

A misplaced pass from Coquelin in midfield allowed QPR's Charlie Austin to pounce, driving forward with power. The home crowd roared as he unleashed a low shot toward the far corner, but David Ospina reacted quickly, diving to his right and parrying it wide. Arsenal's defense scrambled to clear the danger, with Mertesacker barking orders to tighten up.

Arsenal responded almost immediately.

From the resulting goal kick, Mertesacker played it short to Gabriel, who spread it wide to Bellerín. The young right-back pushed forward, slipping a pass inside to Özil, who instantly found Alexis on the left. With a quick burst of acceleration, the Chilean left his marker behind and whipped a dangerous cross into the box. Giroud rose highest, meeting it with a powerful header, but QPR's goalkeeper Robert Green stretched out a strong hand to push it over the bar.

Francesco found himself in the thick of it, battling QPR's midfielders who were throwing themselves into every challenge. Sandro, QPR's enforcer, clattered into him as they both contested a loose ball. Francesco hit the turf hard, but he was up immediately, unfazed. This was a fight, and he welcomed it.

Moments later, Özil picked up the ball near the center circle and tried to thread a pass through to Giroud, but QPR's defenders intercepted and quickly launched a counterattack. A long ball over the top forced Gabriel into a footrace with Bobby Zamora. The Brazilian managed to get a foot in, but the ball spilled to Matt Phillips, who fired a first-time shot from the edge of the box.

Ospina was called into action again, diving low to smother the effort.

Arsenal responded with another dangerous attack of their own. Cazorla and Francesco combined beautifully in midfield, exchanging quick passes before feeding Rosický on the right. The Czech veteran dribbled past his man and cut inside before slipping a pass to Alexis, who tried his luck from distance.

The shot dipped wickedly, but Green was equal to it, palming it away with a strong save.

As the clock hit 20 minutes, the game remained deadlocked, but both teams had already exchanged blows. The intensity hadn't dropped—if anything, it had increased. Arsenal's passing game was starting to find more fluidity, but QPR's resilience was making it difficult to create clear-cut chances.

Francesco wiped the sweat off his forehead, stealing a quick glance at Wenger on the touchline. The manager remained calm, watching intently, arms folded. He knew this was the kind of game Arsenal had to grind through.

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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