180. Post Match Press Conference

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As the lights blazed down and the crowd sang his name, Francesco Lee stood on the pitch, soaking in every second. This wasn't just a win—it was a moment etched into Arsenal history. A night when a 16-year-old stood tallest among giants and delivered a memory fans would carry for a lifetime. Reporters scrambled, cameras flashed, but Francesco just smiled—a quiet, knowing grin of a boy who had dreamed of this and now lived it.

As the roar of the Emirates finally began to taper into scattered chants and applause, Francesco took a deep breath and stood still for a moment near the center circle, soaking it in. His shirt had long been tossed into the crowd, claimed by a lucky fan now likely trembling with joy somewhere in the North Bank. His chest rose and fell with exhaustion, but his eyes—those young, hungry eyes—scanned the pitch until they found one figure still standing near the edge of the Chelsea half.

Eden Hazard.

Still in his kit, shirt clinging to him from sweat and frustration, the Belgian looked quietly reflective. He had fought tonight—battled, twisted, spun—but his magic had been stifled. Double-teamed. Squeezed. The game had been taken from Chelsea's grasp, and now Hazard stood like a man who had witnessed the rise of something inevitable.

Francesco didn't hesitate.

He jogged over, weaving past teammates and officials. As he approached, he slowed down, and for a moment, Hazard looked up, curious.

Francesco extended his hand. "Hey, Eden," he said, his voice calm. "Would you… want to swap shirts?"

Hazard blinked. Maybe surprised. Maybe impressed. Or maybe just seeing something familiar—a young player brimming with dreams, with confidence, and respect. He smiled faintly and nodded.

"Of course," he said, already beginning to tug off his shirt. "Hell of a game, kid."

Francesco gave a sheepish grin. "You're one of the reasons I started playing. It'd mean a lot."

Hazard chuckled, handing over his blue number 10. "Well, if tonight's anything to go by, you're going to be the reason a lot of others start."

Francesco took the shirt in both hands, as if it were delicate glass. He looked at the name—Hazard. A player he had watched for years on TV, tried to emulate in his backyard, mimicked in training sessions. And now here it was, real, slightly damp with sweat, carrying with it not just a name, but a lineage. A torch.

He glanced back at Hazard and offered his own gesture—his hand, as if apologizing he had no shirt left to give.

Hazard laughed. "You already gave me enough trouble tonight. Keep your celebration. I'll remember it anyway."

The two shared a brief handshake, then a small embrace—one of those moments football gives to the generations. A passing of the torch, without words.

Francesco turned and headed toward the tunnel, Hazard drifting in the opposite direction. As Francesco walked, clutching the shirt close to his chest, the fans along the sidelines erupted in another cheer—not for the scoreline, not for the result—but for the boy who had just made memories immortal.

In the tunnel, he was met by a swarm—cameras, reporters, club officials. But all Francesco could think about was how surreal it all was.

Jack Wilshere slapped his back. "You alright, mate?"

Francesco gave a grin, eyes still fixed on the shirt in his hands. "Just… trying to believe this really happened."

Wilshere leaned in. "It did. You lived it."

As they moved down the tunnel, a voice called from behind.

"Francesco!"

He turned. It was Wenger, walking with purpose, flanked by Bould and a couple of staff members.

Wenger placed a hand on Francesco's shoulder and nodded toward the shirt.

"You asked him?"

Francesco smiled. "Yeah. He said yes."

Wenger nodded approvingly. "Smart. Never hurts to collect a reminder of the greats… especially when you've just bested them."

Francesco blushed slightly, not quite sure how to respond.

"You were magnificent tonight," Wenger added, his voice more gentle now. "But remember this—it's not just about moments. It's about consistency. Character. Growth. You've earned your moment. But keep your feet on the ground."

Francesco nodded quickly. "I will, boss."

Wenger offered a smile. "Good. Now get your legs in an ice bath before they fall off."

Laughter followed, easing the weight of the moment.

In the changing room, players were still buzzing. Walcott had his phone out, replaying the goal in slow motion. Özil sat with headphones draped around his neck, a content smile on his face. Ramsey was recounting every second of the final counterattack to anyone who would listen, while Mertesacker sat like a quiet sentinel, rubbing his knee with a pack of ice.

As Francesco walked in, a round of applause erupted.

Not orchestrated. Just pure emotion.

He raised the Hazard shirt in the air with one hand, prompting whistles and cheers.

"Oi!" Wilshere shouted from across the room. "Don't get ideas, mate. One good game doesn't make you Ballon d'Or!"

Francesco smirked. "One good game? Come on, Jack—I scored two against Chelsea."

"Alright, alright," Wilshere grinned. "Fair enough."

Then, the dressing room door swung open again.

This time, it was Wenger.

Still dressed sharply in his long navy coat, he stepped inside with a purposeful stride. His expression was firm but warm—an air of authority laced with pride. The room, still full of banter and laughter, quieted a little as players instinctively sat up straighter.

"Francesco," he said, his voice rising just enough to cut through the murmur.

The teenager turned from where he'd been chatting with Walcott, still holding the blue Chelsea shirt in one hand like it was spun gold.

Wenger pointed with two fingers. "You and Mertesacker. With me. Press conference."

A few eyebrows raised around the room.

Francesco's mouth parted slightly. "Me?"

Wenger nodded once. "Yes. You."

There was no fanfare in his tone, just a calm certainty that this was right. Francesco looked toward Mertesacker, who was already pushing himself up with a grunt, tossing his ice pack aside and adjusting his training top.

"You've done a few now," Wenger said to Francesco as they walked toward the exit. "But tonight… they'll remember this one. Speak well."

Francesco swallowed the nerves that were threatening to climb up his throat. He nodded. "I'll try."

Behind them, someone shouted, "Don't forget to mention my assist!" Francesco turned to see Özil grinning, tapping his chest.

"I'll make you sound like Zidane," Francesco called back with a laugh.

The hallway leading toward the media room smelled faintly of grass and sweat, with the occasional waft of coffee from some tucked-away office. The walk was short, but the air felt heavier with each step—like stepping onto a stage that had already been lit before you arrived.

They entered the press room together. A wall of cameras clicked instantly, like a chorus of mechanical applause. The room was packed. Every chair taken, reporters leaning against walls, microphones perched on tripods like watchful birds. The buzz of voices quieted as soon as the three of them stepped in.

Wenger took the center seat, Francesco to his right, Mertesacker on the left. The table in front of them bore the club logo, surrounded by wires and bottles of water.

The press officer raised her hand.

"We'll begin shortly. One question at a time, please."

And then the questions came.

To Wenger first, of course—about tactics, the title race, the substitutions. But soon enough, they turned to the boy sitting to his right, and that was when Francesco truly felt the heat of the spotlight.

"Francesco," asked a reporter from The Guardian, "tonight was arguably the most important game of the season—and you scored both goals. What was going through your mind during that final run?"

Francesco leaned toward the mic. "Honestly? Not much. I think I just… reacted. I saw Mesut looking up, saw the space. Once the ball dropped, it was like the whole pitch just opened. I've practiced that finish a thousand times, but tonight—it felt different. Special."

More hands shot up and the next question was sharp.

"We saw you speaking to Eden Hazard after the match. Did you ask to swap shirts?"

Francesco nodded. "Yeah. He's one of the best the Premier League's had."

Another wave of clicks echoed through the room as a few cameras zoomed in on the blue shirt Francesco had placed on the table in front of him. Some journalists leaned in, scribbling notes with renewed energy.

Wenger smiled slightly.

"He's handled this with maturity," the manager said. "Swapping shirts with a player like Hazard shows respect. But what he did on the pitch—that shows belief. And that's what matters most."

Per chimed in, his voice low but resolute. "He was fearless tonight. That's rare in someone so young. But what impressed me more was how calm he was after. No ego. Just… grateful."

Another reporter asked, "Do you think Francesco can keep this up? Is he ready for the pressure?"

Wenger's answer was immediate. "Pressure is part of the game. What matters is how you respond. Francesco has talent, yes—but also humility. He listens. Learns. That's what makes me believe he'll handle it."

Wenger took a sip of water, his fingers resting lightly on the bottle as another reporter raised a hand, standing now, voice cutting through the sea of murmurs.

"Arsène," the man said, a pen tucked behind one ear, lanyard bouncing against his chest, "what is the significance of this win for Arsenal? You're now four points ahead of Chelsea with just three games left. What does this mean for the title race?"

The room leaned in—not just out of interest, but out of history. Every Arsenal supporter, every critic, every neutral watching the screens elsewhere—this was the question.

Wenger didn't answer immediately. He looked ahead for a moment, calm, measured. His eyes, those same calm professor's eyes that had witnessed decades of English football shift around him, now locked onto the back of the room, as if searching through memory and possibility all at once.

"It's significant," he finally said, his French accent gentle but firm, "because of everything this group has endured."

He turned slightly to glance at Francesco, who sat quietly beside him, still cradling the Hazard shirt on the table like a memento from a dream.

"We have a young team. A hungry team. One that has often been questioned—perhaps too quickly. But tonight, we showed something more than just talent. We showed resilience. Courage. Discipline. Against a very strong Chelsea side."

He paused, letting that breathe.

"Being four points ahead with three games left… it puts us in a position where our fate is in our hands. And in football, that's all you can ask for. Nothing is guaranteed—but tonight gives us momentum, belief, and most importantly, a reminder of what we're capable of when we trust each other."

The cameras flashed again. Francesco glanced toward Mertesacker, who gave a barely-there nod of approval. The press room, typically sharp and aggressive, had softened a little. For a moment, it wasn't about the rivalry, the speculation, the punditry—it was just about football.

The next question drifted toward Mertesacker.

"Per, you've been part of this club through its ups and downs. You've captained sides in big moments. What did you make of Francesco's performance tonight?"

Mertesacker didn't even blink. "He was brave," he said simply, voice low and steady. "Sometimes, that's the hardest thing on a pitch like this. To be brave enough to try. He didn't just play well—he made decisions. Important ones. He didn't hide. And in a game like this, with everything on the line, that makes all the difference."

Francesco shifted a little in his chair, modestly shrinking under the praise. He adjusted the collar of his training top and tapped his fingers against the plastic of his water bottle.

The press officer, a composed woman with sharp eyes and a subtle smile, raised her hand gently, cutting through the lingering rustle of reporters shifting in their seats.

"Okay," she said clearly, glancing at the wall of raised hands. "One last question."

She pointed to a man standing near the back—a familiar face from Sky Sports. The reporter adjusted his glasses and stepped forward slightly, voice crisp with the polished cadence of a seasoned broadcaster.

"Arsène," he began, "you said tonight gives you momentum and belief. But with three games left, and Chelsea still chasing—led by José Mourinho, a manager who knows how to apply pressure late in the season—are you confident Arsenal won't drop the chains, so to speak? Can you hold your nerve and finish this title race?"

The question landed like a small spark in dry grass—calm on the surface, but with the potential to ignite.

Wenger didn't answer right away. Instead, he sat back slightly, folding his hands over the microphone in front of him. His face remained composed, but there was something in the tightening of his jaw, the thoughtful blink of his eyes, that signaled the weight of the moment.

"Ah, José," he said, almost with a smile—dry, restrained, the kind that hinted at long memories and deeper histories. "Of course."

A soft chuckle rippled through the room. Not laughter, exactly. Just the shared recognition of a rivalry that had once defined Premier League weekends—two managers circling each other like chess grandmasters, each move calculated, each word in the press a piece in play.

"Look," Wenger said, tone calm but assertive, "we respect Chelsea. Always. They are a strong side, managed by someone who knows how to win. We've seen that. We've felt it."

He paused, glancing briefly at Francesco, who was now sitting very still, absorbing every word like scripture.

"But this team," Wenger continued, tapping his fingers lightly on the table, "is not burdened by that past. They're not carrying the scars of title races lost to Mourinho, or ghosts of old rivalries. They are writing their own story. And I see that every day in training. I saw it tonight."

He leaned forward slightly now, his voice lower, more deliberate. "We are not thinking about dropping chains. We are thinking about finishing strong. About doing what we've done all season—play our game. Fight together. Take nothing for granted. Respect every opponent. But fear no one."

The room was quiet now, the tension wound tighter than before. Even the clicks of cameras had slowed, as if the photographers didn't want to disturb the weight of Wenger's words.

"I've managed this club for a long time," Wenger went on. "And I've seen great teams falter—not because of the opponent, but because of doubt. What I see in this group… is clarity. And belief."

His eyes swept the room again, and then—very deliberately—settled on the young man to his right.

"Take tonight. Francesco here, sixteen years old, scores the winner in stoppage time. That's not just talent. That's character. And we need character now—not fear."

Francesco blinked, as if realizing he'd been holding his breath.

The Sky Sports reporter nodded slowly, scribbling notes. "So… are you saying the title's in the bag?"

Wenger's reply came with a small shake of the head. "No. Nothing is ever 'in the bag' in football. That's the beauty of it. We still have work to do. Three games. Three battles. But if we approach them the way we approached tonight—focused, united, fearless—then yes, we believe we can finish this."

He offered a short, respectful nod. "And when the time comes, we'll see who holds the chain."

The press officer took a step forward, closing the notebook in her hands.

"That's it. Thank you all."

The room exhaled in unison, chairs scraping softly as people stood, the buzz of conversation returning like a tide rushing in. Reporters turned to one another, comparing notes, shaking heads in admiration or skepticism—it was hard to say.

Wenger stood first, buttoning his coat with the precision of a man who had done this more times than anyone could count. Mertesacker followed, tall and grounded, giving a polite nod to a few familiar faces in the front row.

Francesco lingered for a second longer. He looked out across the room—at the lenses still pointed toward him, the half-finished cups of coffee, the pens scrawling across notepads. This wasn't a dream anymore. It was his new normal.

He stood and reached for the blue Chelsea shirt on the table, folding it gently, almost reverently. As they turned to leave, Wenger placed a hand on his shoulder—not for show, not for the cameras. Just quietly. Meaningfully.

"You handled that well," he said.

Francesco smiled. "Thanks, boss."

They made their way down the corridor again, the press room fading behind them, the quiet of the stadium settling like dusk over the empty pitch outside.

"Three games left," Mertesacker muttered, mostly to himself.

"Three wins," Wenger said back, not as a prediction—but as a challenge.

Francesco said nothing, but inside, he made a silent vow. He wasn't just here to play. He was here to finish what they'd started and get that title.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 31

Goal: 37

Assist: 12

MOTM: 8