The King Of Arsenal

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He dropped onto the bed with a sigh, his body sinking into the mattress. The events of the past 24 hours played through his mind again—his goal, the victory, the press conference, Wenger's words. It all felt surreal, like he was living in someone else's dream. But as he closed his eyes, he reminded himself that this was his reality now. And it was only the beginning.

The next morning, Francesco woke up to the soft rays of sunlight filtering through his curtains. The warmth on his face stirred him from sleep, and for a moment, he stayed still, savoring the peacefulness of home. It was a stark contrast to the bustling life he led on the pitch and in the locker rooms. Slowly, he pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair.

A shower was the first order of business. The water cascading over him washed away the remnants of sleep and the lingering fatigue from the match. As he stood under the stream, he thought about the day ahead—no training, no meetings, just a rare opportunity to relax.

Wrapping himself in a towel, he walked back to his room to get dressed. Opting for a simple outfit of jeans and a plain white t-shirt, he felt a pang of nostalgia for the days when life was simpler, when football was just a dream and not the demanding reality it had become.

The smell of breakfast wafted through the house, drawing him downstairs. Entering the dining room, he found his mom, Sarah, setting the table with plates of eggs, toast, and fresh orange juice. His dad, Mike, was already seated, reading the newspaper, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Good morning, son," Mike greeted without looking up, his voice carrying a warm familiarity.

"Morning, Dad. Morning, Mom," Francesco replied, sliding into his seat.

"Morning, sweetheart," Sarah said, flashing him a bright smile as she set a steaming plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. "Sleep well?"

"Like a rock," he said, reaching for a slice of toast.

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the clinking of cutlery filling the room. It was Mike who broke the quiet first.

"So, today's the Champions League draw, isn't it?" he asked, folding the newspaper and setting it aside.

Francesco nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Yeah. Wenger mentioned it last night. I think it's happening this night."

"Any guesses on who Arsenal might face?" Sarah chimed in, her curiosity evident.

"Well," Francesco said, swallowing his bite of toast, "there are a few possibilities. Bayern, maybe. Real Madrid, PSG... They're all tough opponents, but that's just how the Champions League is."

"Bayern again?" Mike said with a groan. "It feels like Arsenal gets them every year."

Francesco laughed. "Tell me about it. But if we do, we'll be ready. Last night's match showed we can handle pressure."

"You've got a good team this year," Sarah said, her voice filled with pride. "And with you scoring goals like that, they'll have to watch out."

He smiled, appreciating her unwavering confidence in him. "We'll see, Mom. Every match is a challenge, but I'm looking forward to it."

The conversation drifted to lighter topics after that—Sarah updated them on the neighbors, Mike shared a funny story from work, and Francesco chimed in with tales from the locker room. Breakfast felt like a comforting routine, grounding him in a way that only family time could.

Once the plates were cleared and the table wiped down, Francesco excused himself and headed back upstairs to his room. As he stepped inside, he was hit with a wave of nostalgia. His eyes fell on the PlayStation 4 sitting by his TV, the controller resting on the desk. FIFA 15. The urge to play was irresistible.

Grinning to himself, he booted up the console and slipped the game disc into the tray. The familiar opening screen lit up, and soon enough, he was immersed in his Arsenal virtual career mode.

The virtual Emirates Stadium roared to life as he navigated his team through the fixtures. In this world, he was the manager, the architect of Arsenal's fate. His team, stacked with some of the best players from around the world, was on a winning streak, and Francesco was determined to keep it that way.

He played match after match, tweaking formations, making substitutions, and reliving the thrill of scoring goals—all from the comfort of his room. The hours flew by as he navigated Arsenal through a grueling Champions League group stage, defeating teams like Juventus and Dortmund.

At one point, his dad poked his head in. "Still playing FIFA?" Mike asked, chuckling.

"Yeah," Francesco said without looking away from the screen. "I'm taking Arsenal all the way to the Champions League final."

"Just make sure your real team does the same," Mike teased before leaving him to it.

Francesco laughed, shaking his head as he resumed his game. There was something oddly therapeutic about this—playing out scenarios in a virtual world where he had total control, free from the pressure of real-life expectations.

By the time he finally turned off the console, the sun was beginning to dip in the sky. Stretching his arms, he leaned back in his chair, feeling a sense of satisfaction. Whether in the real world or the virtual one, Arsenal was always at the center of his dreams.

As he stood up and glanced out the window, he couldn't help but think about the Champions League draw again. No matter who Arsenal faced, he knew it would be tough.

Francesco made his way downstairs, the buzz of anticipation swirling in his chest. The Champions League draw was one of those rare moments where the fate of clubs was decided by the turn of a ball, and he couldn't miss it.

In the living room, he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned on the TV. Settling on the couch, he flipped through the channels until he found the pre-draw commentary. The studio analysts were already deep in discussion, analyzing the potential matchups and laying out the scenarios.

"Arsenal could face a tough draw this year," one pundit said. "Bayern, Real Madrid, or even PSG—it's going to be a challenge no matter what."

Francesco leaned back, smiling to himself. He'd heard it all before. Arsenal was often underestimated in these situations, but that only fueled his determination to prove the doubters wrong.

As the draw was about to begin, he felt the urge to snack on something. Popcorn. The idea popped into his head, and he headed for the kitchen.

Opening the kitchen wardrobe, Francesco scanned the shelves, moving jars of spices and boxes of cereal around in search of the familiar yellow packet. He frowned, not seeing it in its usual spot.

"Francesco, what are you looking for?" his mom, Sarah, asked as she walked in, a dish towel slung over her shoulder.

"Popcorn," Francesco replied, still rummaging through the shelves. "I want to microwave some to eat while I watch the draw."

Sarah smiled knowingly and pointed to a higher shelf. "Check up there. I moved it yesterday when I was reorganizing."

Following her direction, Francesco spotted the packet tucked neatly at the back of the shelf. "Thanks, Mom," he said, grabbing it and heading for the microwave.

Sarah watched him with amusement as he placed the popcorn bag inside and pressed the timer. "You're really into this Champions League draw, huh?"

"Of course," Francesco said, leaning against the counter as the microwave hummed. "It's not every day you find out who you're facing in one of the biggest tournaments in football."

Sarah chuckled. "Well, I hope you don't get Bayern again. They always give Arsenal such a hard time."

"Tell me about it," Francesco said with a grin. "But if we do, I'll be ready for them. It's just another challenge."

The microwave beeped, and Francesco pulled out the bag, the warm, buttery aroma filling the kitchen. He poured the popcorn into a bowl and thanked his mom again before heading back to the living room.

The TV screen now displayed the stage in Nyon, Switzerland, where the draw was taking place. Francesco plopped back down on the couch, placing the bowl of popcorn on his lap. He adjusted the volume and settled in as the UEFA officials began their introductions.

One by one, the names of the teams were called out, and the matchups started to form. Francesco leaned forward slightly, his heart rate picking up as Arsenal's name remained in the pot.

"And now, Arsenal," the official announced, holding up the slip of paper.

Francesco held his breath as the next ball was drawn.

"They will face… Monaco!"

Francesco let out a long breath of relief as Monaco's name was revealed. Finally, he thought, grateful that Arsenal had managed to avoid a juggernaut like Bayern Munich. The draw could have been far worse.

On screen, the camera cut to Arsène Wenger, seated at the draw venue. His face mirrored the sentiment Francesco felt—relief. Wenger looked calm, his usual composed demeanor intact, but there was a subtle shift in his expression, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Monaco isn't the strongest team we could've drawn," Francesco muttered to himself, reaching for a handful of popcorn, "but football is round."

The thought sobered him. Arsenal might be the favorites on paper, but matches weren't won on paper. He knew better than most how unpredictable the sport could be—one mistake, one inspired performance from the opposition, and the dream could unravel.

The analysts on TV echoed his thoughts.

"Well, that's a favorable draw for Arsenal," one pundit said, his tone cautious. "But they can't afford to take Monaco lightly. Don't forget, they've got young talent and nothing to lose. If Arsenal isn't careful, this could turn into an upset."

Francesco nodded along. He knew the pundit was right. Monaco might not boast the star power of Bayern or Real Madrid, but they had a reputation for producing fearless young players. If Arsenal wasn't on their game, things could go sideways fast.

The draw continued, but Francesco's attention started to wane. He leaned back into the couch, letting the tension of the moment fade. The popcorn bowl was nearly empty, and he absentmindedly popped the last kernel into his mouth as the draw wrapped up.

As the UEFA officials thanked everyone and the broadcast transitioned back to the studio, Francesco grabbed the remote and turned the volume down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and let his thoughts wander to the upcoming tie.

Monaco would be tricky, but not impossible. Arsenal had the quality to win, and Francesco was determined to play a key role. The idea of traveling to the Stade Louis II in Monte Carlo excited him—the chance to play on a different stage, in a different atmosphere, was one of the things he loved most about football.

Mike walked into the room then, his phone in hand. "So, Monaco, huh?" he said, glancing at the muted TV. "Not bad. Could've been Bayern again."

Francesco smirked. "Yeah, thank God for that. I don't think I could handle another Bayern tie this early."

Mike chuckled as he sat down in the armchair. "Monaco's not a pushover, though. Didn't they make a decent run in the Champions League a few years ago?"

"They did," Francesco said, nodding. "They've got a good setup over there—lots of talented young players. It's not going to be easy, but I like our chances."

Mike leaned back, crossing his arms. "Wenger looked relieved on TV. You think he's already thinking about tactics?"

"Definitely," Francesco said, a grin tugging at his lips. "He's probably already working on how we can break them down. You know how meticulous he is."

Mike smiled knowingly. "Well, he's got you in his squad, so that's already a big advantage. Just don't let them catch you off guard."

Francesco appreciated his dad's confidence in him, but he also knew the responsibility that came with it. He couldn't afford to let complacency slip into his mindset. Every pass, every shot, every tackle in those matches would matter.

"Don't worry, Dad," he said, standing up and stretching. "I'll make sure we're ready."

Mike watched him with a proud smile as Francesco picked up the empty popcorn bowl and headed to the kitchen. Washing the bowl at the sink, Francesco's mind raced with scenarios—imagining the buildup to the match, the roar of the crowd, the feeling of the ball at his feet under the floodlights.

Back in his room later, Francesco sat at his desk, staring at his laptop. The Champions League anthem played softly in his head as he pulled up clips of Monaco's recent matches. He knew the coaching staff would do a thorough analysis, but he wanted to get a head start.

Monaco's team was younger than most, with players full of energy and fearless creativity. Francesco admired their determination, but he couldn't help but see their inexperience as something Arsenal could exploit. He jotted down a few notes:

- Compact defense: They struggle against quick transitions.

- Set pieces: Weak at defending corners.

- Key player to watch: A young attacking midfielder who seemed to be their creative spark.

As he typed, a message popped up on his phone.

Theo: "Monaco! Looks like we dodged a bullet. Ready to tear them apart?"

Francesco smirked and replied: "Always. Let's make sure they remember who they're up against."

Another message came in, this time from Alexis Sanchez.

Alexis: "No Bayern! Wenger must've sighed with relief, lol. Training tomorrow? I want to start prepping."

Francesco: "Same here. Let's hit the ground running. No room for slip-ups."

Closing his laptop, Francesco leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The journey to Champions League glory was long and grueling, but it was moments like these—the anticipation, the planning, the thrill of the unknown—that made it all worth it.

He thought back to the countless hours he'd spent as a kid, dreaming of this stage. To him, football wasn't just a game—it was everything. And now, with Arsenal's path clear, he was ready to give everything he had to make sure they advanced.

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.

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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