263. Againts Bournemouth PT.1

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They walked the rest of the path to the car park together in companionable silence, two players at opposite ends of their careers, both feeling the weight of a season just starting to test them.

The next day, as Francesco pulled the handbrake on his BMW X5 and sat still for a moment in the early-morning hush of the Colney car park. The sky was that particular shade of overcast grey that made everything feel colder than it actually was—December in London, thick with breath you could see and cold you couldn't quite escape.

He leaned forward against the steering wheel, exhaled, and tapped his fingers twice against the dash.

Game day again. But not just any game day.

A few feet outside his car, groundskeepers were already making rounds along the hedges, and a delivery van idled near the side entrance, unloading boxes for the canteen. Life moved early here. Quietly but deliberately. Like the whole place was warming up just like the players would be soon.

Francesco zipped up his club-issued black puffer jacket, slid out of the car, and locked it with a soft chirp. The cold air hit his cheeks, fresh and raw. He adjusted his scarf, pulled his beanie down over his ears, and started toward the administration wing of the facility.

Before warm-ups, before the team meeting, before the coach ride to the Emirates—there was one thing he needed to check.

Something that had nothing to do with tactics.

Then he finally arrive at Colney Admin Wing, which is where the Community Office are.

"Emma here?"

Sophie, the admin receptionist, looked up from her screen and smiled. "She's in her office—go on through."

Francesco gave a grateful nod and made his way down the corridor, the soles of his trainers muffled against the carpet. He passed framed community event photos on the wall—kids in Arsenal shirts, elderly fans on stadium tours, grinning hospital visits.

At the end of the hall, he knocked lightly on the open door.

Emma looked up from a stack of folders, red hair tied back in a loose ponytail, a pencil tucked behind her ear.

"Oh!" she said brightly. "Morning, Francesco. You're early."

He stepped in, hands in his jacket pockets. "Not early. Just trying to get ahead of things before we head to the stadium."

She smiled, already sensing what he was here for.

"Don't worry," she said, standing. "Everything's sorted."

"You sure?" he asked, stepping further inside. "The bus is going to pick up Margaret and the kids from the shelter, right? What time's it due?"

Emma crossed her arms and leaned against the filing cabinet. "Scheduled for 11:45. Should get them to the Emirates with time to spare. Security's been alerted, and I've made sure the driver has all the credentials."

Francesco's shoulders eased slightly. "Good."

"And the box is ready too," she added, reaching over to pull out a printed sheet from her folder. "VIP Box 17, west stand. Heated. Stocked with food, drinks. There'll be hot chocolate for the kids. Margaret has a guest list too, so they'll be met at the gate."

He nodded again, this time more deeply, more meaningfully. "I just want them to have a good day. They deserve it."

Emma's eyes softened. "You've done a lot already, you know. Santa suit and all."

Francesco laughed under his breath. "Still can't believe you talked me into that."

She grinned. "You were brilliant. And it meant the world to them. Margaret told me three of the boys refused to take off their Arsenal shirts for a week."

That brought a real smile to his face—one that lingered even as his mind shifted back to the game ahead.

"Alright," he said, glancing down at his watch. "I've got to get back to the squad. Bus leaves in fifteen."

Emma reached out and squeezed his arm gently. "Good luck today. Win or lose, those kids are going to be screaming your name either way."

He nodded, eyes warm. "Let's hope it's after a win."

Back in the players' wing, the energy had begun to shift. Staff were moving more briskly. Kit bags were being loaded onto the luggage cart out front. And somewhere down the hallway, someone was already blasting a warm-up playlist through a Bluetooth speaker.

Francesco ducked into the locker room, where most of the lads were already getting into pre-match routines. Flamini was tying his laces while half-listening to Bellerín and Walcott talk about which boots they were bringing. Ramsey was deep in conversation with one of the analysts about Bournemouth's pressing pattern.

"Lee," Wenger said, his voice calm but clear from the doorway.

Francesco turned.

The boss gave him a small nod. "Team coach in ten. You ready?"

Francesco straightened his shoulders, nodded. "Always."

He turned to his locker, unzipped his carry bag, and pulled out the Emirates matchday warm-up kit—crimson top, black track pants, boots already laced and tucked into a side compartment. As he sat down to change, Iwobi dropped into the seat next to him, tying his own boots.

"You sort out the orphans' visit?" Iwobi asked, glancing up.

"Yeah. Emma's got it covered," Francesco replied. "They'll be there. Box seats and all."

"That's sick," Iwobi said, grinning. "We better put on a show then."

Francesco looked over, smirked. "We will."

The ride from Colney to the Emirates took just under an hour, but it was always the same arc—ten minutes of light chatter, fifteen of tactical briefings via tablet or staff notes, and then the long silence before arrival. The quiet where every player sat in their own head, headphones on, staring out the windows or down at their boots.

Francesco sat by the window again. His usual seat. Hood up. Music low.

He thought about the match. About Bournemouth's pace. About their pressing style and compact lines. He pictured the rotations—the moments he'd peel off the right and into half-spaces, dragging a defender just enough to open the lane for Özil, or cutting inside for a quick one-two with Giroud.

But somewhere in between, his thoughts drifted.

To Margaret. To the kids in the shelter. To the fact that somewhere on the northbound A1, a bus was probably winding its way toward the Emirates, full of wide-eyed children with paper tickets in their pockets and scarves too big for their faces.

He imagined them stepping into the VIP box for the first time, faces lit up by the massive, gleaming bowl of the Emirates. He imagined the smallest of them pointing and saying, "There! That's him! That's Francesco!"

It made the cold of the Southampton draw feel just a little less heavy.

Today wasn't just about three points.

It was about more.

The team bus eased off the motorway and into the city proper, weaving through Islington traffic under escort. Fans were already beginning to cluster outside the stadium gates, wrapped in red and white.

As the team bus glided past the Emirates gates, Francesco's phone buzzed quietly in the front pocket of his jacket.

He blinked, coming out of the fog of pre-match focus for a moment. The floodlights hadn't even been turned on yet, but the air already felt electric. Matchday in Islington always had that unique hum—somewhere between anxious anticipation and sheer love.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

There was something else he needed to do.

Leaning slightly against the window, he unlocked it and scrolled to his message thread with Leah—the one person outside football who had somehow become one of his anchors this season. Smart. Steady. No-nonsense, but warm underneath it all.

He started typing, his thumb moving quickly.

Hey. Got a favor. You busy this afternoon?

He stared at the screen, then added another line before she even had the chance to answer.

Emma from community outreach is sending over a group of orphans from Islington to watch the match today. VIP box.

Margaret's with them. But I was wondering… would you mind joining them? Just being there for the kids. Keeping them company. Making sure they're okay.

He hesitated—then pressed send.

It wasn't something he asked lightly. But he trusted Leah. She had a way with people that footballers didn't always have. Especially kids. She knew how to read a room, how to fill silence without overstepping it. He'd seen it more than once. And he knew the children would feel more comfortable with someone like her in the room. Not just staff or strangers in Arsenal coats.

A few seconds passed. Then another buzz.

Leah:

You want me in a box full of football-mad kids in the middle of a Premier League match?

Francesco smirked, typing back.

Yup. Free snacks, warm seats, great view of the pitch. And I promise they'll adore you.

Another pause. Then—

Leah:

I'm in. What do I need?

Francesco leaned back in his seat and let the smallest breath of relief slip through his lips.

Then he quickly opened his contact list and found Emma's number, copying it.

Here. Emma's the coordinator. She'll get you past security and up to the box. Just tell her I sent you.

+44 7740 9269XX

She's expecting my message anyway.

Box 17. West Stand. Kickoff's 3 PM. The kids are arriving around 12:30.

He could already imagine it—Leah walking in with that half-wry smile, fielding a million questions about who she knew on the team, making space for shy kids to step forward, helping Margaret hand out little bags of treats and scarves.

It mattered. Maybe more than anyone realized.

The bus turned the final corner now, Emirates Stadium rising up beside them in its full curved majesty. Red banners rippled in the wind, and supporters pressed up against the fencing, waving scarves, holding signs, shouting names. The security detail guided them through the side gate toward the players' entrance.

As the bus rolled to a stop, Francesco slid his phone back into his pocket, zipped his jacket halfway, and stood.

The team bus eased to a gentle halt beneath the Emirates' curved façade, the familiar pulse of home drawing the players to their feet. Francesco stood, his mind already starting to partition off the morning's warm thoughts from the afternoon's coming battle. His hand brushed instinctively over the badge on his jacket.

He stepped off the bus into the crisp North London air, boots clicking against the concrete, and glanced across the plaza just as another vehicle pulled in beside them—a smaller coach, painted white with blue trim. The children had arrived.

The door folded open with a hiss, and a dozen faces immediately leaned against the windows. Wide-eyed. Curious. Awestruck.

Francesco recognized the logo on the side—Islington Care Network. The orphanage. Margaret's shelter.

Then he spotted her—Emma, coat buttoned up to her chin, clipboard in one hand and scarf bouncing against her knees as she jogged lightly up to the door. The driver opened the underside of the coach, revealing neatly packed bundles: scarves, coats, backpacks.

Margaret stepped off first. Emma hugged her tightly. Then the first of the children filed out, one by one—some clinging to their friends, others bursting ahead, eyes locked on the towering stadium that arched like a temple above them.

Francesco lingered for just a second longer than he meant to, watching.

That little boy with the Arsenal beanie—he recognized him. Jamie, right? The one who'd shyly handed Francesco a paper drawing of a goal celebration during their last visit. Now he was here, feet planted on the Emirates grounds, mouth slightly open in wonder.

A small tug hit Francesco's chest before he finally turned away, lifting his hood against the breeze. The moment was theirs now. And Leah would be with them soon enough.

He walked briskly toward the players' entrance, joining the others who had already disappeared inside.

The scent of liniment and fresh kit greeted them like a pre-match ritual. Their red home shirts hung neatly in a row, names and numbers stitched bold across the backs. Heat blowers hummed softly overhead, drying boots laid out precisely beneath each seat.

Francesco dropped into his spot, peeled off his jacket, and pulled his training top over his head in one smooth motion. His body was warm from the bus ride, but soon it would need to move like fire.

The room buzzed with focused energy. Ramsey tightened his laces twice, nodding along to the playlist Walcott had queued up. Gabriel stood shirtless, stretching out his hips with the help of the physio. Kante, already in his warm-up gear, sat quietly checking the studs on his boots.

There wasn't much chatter—just murmurs. Everyone knew what was coming. The sting of Southampton hadn't left them, and today's job was simple: respond.

Thirty minutes before kick-off, they stepped onto the pitch.

The air was biting but dry, perfect football weather. The stands were only partially filled yet, but even the empty seats felt alive with potential. Francesco jogged alongside Walcott, warming his muscles with deep strides, feeling the Emirates turf beneath his soles.

They moved through rondos. Short sprints. Dynamic stretches.

Özil floated past, already gliding. Giroud nodded to himself after a sharp finish into the corner. Francesco dropped deep into his stance, tested his acceleration, turned sharply off his right foot.

Focus. Rhythm. Precision.

They rotated through shooting drills last—balls fed in quick succession, left foot, right foot, headers, volleys.

Francesco struck one sweetly into the top left corner and didn't even watch it go in. He was already turning to jog back into line.

He didn't need to see it.

He felt it.

Their boots squeaked slightly on the tunnel flooring as they came back inside, cheeks flushed from exertion. Francesco peeled off his warm-up layers and toweled the sweat from his neck.

The atmosphere was tighter now. Sharper. A countdown had begun, silent but undeniable.

Wenger entered the room with the match sheet in one hand and a dry-erase marker in the other. He walked to the board calmly, adjusted his glasses, and turned to face them.

"We will play in a 4-2-3-1," he began without fanfare. "Petr in goal."

He wrote it as he spoke.

"Back four: Gibbs, Per, Gabriel, Hector."

A nod from Bellerín. Gabriel adjusted the tape on his wrist.

"Ramsey and Kanté in the holding midfield. Özil central."

The heart of the machine. Mesut looked up, unreadable, but ready.

"Francesco on the left, Theo on the right."

Francesco straightened his back. Alexis's continued absence meant responsibility. He didn't need Wenger to say it.

"Up front—Olivier."

Giroud nodded, clenching his jaw.

Then, the bench:

"Ospina. Koscielny. Monreal. Van Dijk. Oxlade. Iwobi. Campbell."

Wenger took a beat, then set the marker down. His voice lowered slightly—firm, direct.

"I don't want a repeat of Southampton. No sloppiness. No drifting. You press together. You recover together. You finish your chances."

He turned to Francesco, not in challenge but in command.

"You stretch them wide. Force their fullbacks to choose. Ramsey and Kante will cover your back."

Then to Walcott.

"Direct runs. Push them. No sideways nonsense."

Then to the room.

"This is our house. We dictate the game. No fear. No pity. And no complacency."

He stepped back. Let the silence speak.

Then—"Let's go."

The hum of the crowd above had turned into a low roar, vibrating through the concrete. Francesco stood third from the back, just in front Walcott and Giroud, tugging on his gloves, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

In front of him, Kante stared ahead like a soldier before a campaign. Ramsey adjusted his shin guards. Özil looked like he'd already mentally picked his first pass.

The tunnel always felt like a threshold between two worlds—one of tense calm, the other of chaos waiting to ignite. It was narrow, barely wide enough for the two teams and officials to line up, yet it held the weight of history, memory, and expectation with every step.

Francesco adjusted the tape on his wrist as he stepped onto the mat, the sound of studs clacking against concrete loud in the charged silence. The clatter was broken only by the low murmur of stadium speakers and the muffled roar of 60,000 just outside.

To his left, Kante bounced in place. Ahead, Giroud rolled his shoulders back. Ramsey, Özil, and Gibbs were already forming up. They stood shoulder to shoulder beside Bournemouth's eleven—each face focused, each jaw clenched in the final breaths before battle.

The referee, Jon Moss, stood at the center with his assistants, eyes scanning both lines.

Francesco's gaze drifted for just a second—beyond the advertising boards, past the barrier behind the West Stand. His eyes scanned Box 17.

It was too far to see clearly. But he imagined them there—Margaret, Leah, the kids, scarves wrapped around small chins, faces pressed to the glass. Maybe Jamie had already spotted him and pointed. Maybe one of them had asked if footballers got nervous.

He breathed in through his nose, then let it go.

The teams marched out.

The wall of noise that greeted them was instant and absolute. Red and white filled the bowl of the Emirates, flags waving like fire. Cameras tracked their every step, but Francesco barely noticed. He focused on the rhythm of his breath, the give of the turf under his boots.

They lined up for the anthem. Then came the handshakes.

Francesco offered his palm to Bournemouth's right-back, Adam Smith. "Good luck," he said.

"Cheers, mate," came the reply.

Then to the linesman, then the referee. Each shake fast, firm. Tradition.

Mertesacker stepped up to the center circle with Bournemouth captain Simon Francis. The coin flipped high into the grey December sky, sunlight briefly catching its silver face.

Moss caught it clean.

"Tails," Mertesacker called calmly.

The ref checked. Nodded. "Arsenal to kick."

The teams jogged into shape. Francesco made his way to the left side, scanning the opposition fullback—Smith—already standing five yards off, legs bent, weight forward. They knew he'd come fast.

Fine.

Let them.

Özil placed the ball at center circle. Giroud stood beside him.

The whistle blew.

Kickoff.

⸻

The first fifteen minutes exploded with more pace than anyone expected.

No early probing. No slow feelers. Just open throttle.

Arsenal went forward immediately, Özil pinging a diagonal to Walcott who tore down the right. His cross was sharp—Giroud met it with his forehead, the ball arrowing toward the top corner.

Boruc stretched and clawed it away.

Less than a minute later, Bournemouth countered.

Matt Ritchie slid a beautiful through ball between Gabriel and Bellerín. King darted in. Shot low and hard across goal.

Čech, tall and monstrous in black, dropped to his left and palmed it around the post.

Corner. Cleared.

Arsenal reset. The Emirates buzzed louder.

Francesco touched the ball for the first time in the 4th minute. Kante slipped it into him just past halfway. He took it on the spin, peeled away from Smith, and drove up the line.

He faked once, twice, then cut in on his right and fired from twenty yards—skimming and wicked.

Boruc again. Tipped wide.

Walcott nodded to him across the box. "Close."

Francesco didn't answer. Just nodded once and jogged back.

Back the other way, Bournemouth kept pushing. Arter struck from distance in the 7th. Čech punched it up and out like swatting a hornet. Gabriel swept the rebound clear.

Eight minutes in. Three saves apiece. It felt more like the last ten of a cup final than the first ten of a December league fixture.

In the 11th minute, Ramsey turned past two midfielders and laid it off to Özil. One-touch. Bang. Francesco again—tight to the sideline, feet fast.

He pushed forward, this time choosing to go all the way to the byline. Dinked cross.

Giroud rose.

Header.

Boruc again.

Roars echoed like cannon fire.

Arsenal recycled possession, switching play across the pitch. Bellerín charged into the space behind Daniels, fed Walcott who curled one toward the far post.

Gloved fingers pushed it wide.

Another corner.

The players regrouped, breathing hard. Wenger gestured from the sideline, urging calm. Precision.

On the pitch, there was no time for words.

Just motion.

Just instinct.

By the fifteenth minute, the stadium had already been to the edge three times. The scoreboard still read 0–0, but no one watching believed it would stay that way.

Francesco, jogging back into shape after another high press, caught a glimpse of Box 17 again through the glass. Even from here, he swore he could see little fists pumping, time to give them something to cheer for.

________________________________________________

Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield

Season 15/16 stats:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 27

Goal: 37

Assist: 6

MOTM: 3

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9