Bab 61: 58. After the Match
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For Francesco, it was another step in his journey, another opportunity to showcase his talent on the big stage. But for Arsenal, it was more than just a win—it was a statement. They were a team on the rise, and with players like Francesco leading the way, the future looked incredibly bright.
The final whistle had blown, and the roar of the Emirates Stadium was still echoing in Francesco Lee's ears as he made his way into the locker room with his teammates. The atmosphere was electric, the air buzzing with post-match euphoria. Arsenal had delivered a dominant 5-1 victory, and the players were celebrating not just the result but the sheer quality of their performance.
Francesco, still catching his breath from his exhilarating display, was greeted with pats on the back, handshakes, and words of praise as he entered the dressing room. "Unbelievable tonight, Francesco," said Olivier Giroud, grinning as he wrapped a towel around his shoulders. "That assist for Rosicky and your goal… magnifique!"
"Thanks, Oli," Francesco replied with a modest smile, his cheeks reddening slightly. "Your header wasn't too bad either."
Theo Walcott chimed in, "Mate, the way you left Ferdinand for dead was unreal. How old are you again? Feels like you've been doing this for years." His playful tone was filled with genuine admiration.
Francesco shrugged with a small laugh, "Just one of those nights, I guess."
The conversation shifted to the MOTM award when a staff member entered the room carrying a gleaming trophy. "Francesco Lee, congratulations," she said with a smile, handing him the award for the second time in as many weeks. The room erupted in cheers and applause.
Mikel Arteta, always the leader, stepped forward. "This one's on you, Francesco. You keep playing like this, and we'll need a bigger trophy cabinet just for your MOTM awards."
Laughter rippled through the room, and Francesco held the trophy aloft, grinning from ear to ear. "Thanks, everyone. Couldn't do it without you lot."
As the team settled down to shower and change, the mood remained jovial. Showers were filled with playful banter, water spraying, and the occasional singing of club chants. Francesco, now out of his game kit and in the Arsenal training suit, sat at his locker, carefully packing his match jersey into his bag. He paused, though, as he noticed the Arsenal crest, an idea forming in his mind.
Once ready, the team headed out to the waiting Arsenal bus. As they stepped outside, a sea of fans greeted them, waving scarves and holding signs, hoping for autographs or a simple glimpse of their heroes. The noise was deafening, a mix of cheers and chants that filled the crisp London night air.
Several players stopped to sign autographs and take selfies. Francesco, seeing the joy it brought, decided to stay a little longer despite the staff urging the players to board the bus. As he signed shirts, footballs, and programs, his eye caught sight of a small family standing a bit further back—a young boy and girl holding hands, flanked by their parents. The boy was holding an Arsenal scarf tightly, his eyes wide with wonder as he stared at the players.
Francesco excused himself from the crowd and walked toward the family. The little boy's eyes grew even wider, and the girl whispered something excitedly to her mother. "Hey there," Francesco said, crouching down to the kids' level. "What's your name, champ?" he asked the boy.
"Jake," the boy replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
"And you?" Francesco turned to the girl.
"Emily," she said shyly, hiding behind her father's leg.
"Nice to meet you both. Did you enjoy the game?" Francesco asked.
"Yes!" Jake exclaimed, finding his voice. "You were amazing! The way you scored past Rob Green—I want to play like you one day."
Francesco chuckled, tousling Jake's hair. "Well, you're already ahead of me. I didn't even get to see games like this when I was your age." He glanced at the parents. "Future Gooner here?"
Jake's dad nodded proudly. "He's actually trying out for the Arsenal youth team next week. He's been working hard for it."
Francesco's eyes lit up. "Really? That's brilliant, Jake. You know, I remember how nervous I was for my first trial. But if you give it everything you've got and keep believing in yourself, you'll do great."
Jake nodded, a determined look crossing his face.
Francesco paused, then reached into his bag. He pulled out the match jersey he'd just worn—a jersey still damp with sweat, with grass stains on the sleeves. Without hesitation, he uncapped a marker and signed his name across the back, just below the number.
"Here," he said, handing the jersey to Jake. "Take this. Let it remind you that you've got this. Wear it, keep it, whatever helps. But I'll be rooting for you next week."
Jake's jaw dropped, and his hands trembled as he accepted the jersey. "For me? Really?"
"Of course," Francesco said. "Consider it a good luck charm. But you've got to promise me one thing."
"What?" Jake asked eagerly.
"Give it your all. Deal?"
"Deal!" Jake said, his face breaking into a wide grin.
Emily tugged at Francesco's sleeve. "Can I have your autograph too?" she asked shyly.
Francesco laughed. "Of course, Emily. How about I sign your scarf?" He took her scarf and wrote a short message alongside his signature: To Emily—always dream big!
The parents thanked Francesco profusely as he shook their hands and said goodbye. Jake was already holding the jersey up to his chest, beaming with pride, while Emily clutched her scarf tightly.
As Francesco rejoined his teammates on the bus, he glanced back to see Jake waving the jersey in the air. The sight filled him with a sense of fulfillment. It wasn't just about the goals or the awards—it was about moments like these, where he could inspire the next generation.
The bus ride back was filled with chatter and laughter. The team rewatched highlights of the match on their phones, replaying Giroud's header and Francesco's mesmerizing goal. Theo Walcott leaned over from his seat. "That kid you gave your jersey to—nice touch, mate. You're making fans for life."
Francesco shrugged, smiling. "If it helps him believe in himself, it's worth it."
As the bus rolled through the city streets, the players began to wind down, the adrenaline from the match finally fading. But for Francesco, the night would remain etched in his memory. It wasn't just a game—it was a connection, a reminder of why he loved football.
The Arsenal team bus pulled into the familiar grounds of the Arsenal Training Centre, the headlights cutting through the stillness of the night. Despite the late hour, the atmosphere was far from subdued. The players were still riding the high of their commanding victory, their conversations and laughter filling the bus as it slowed to a stop. Francesco gazed out the window, taking in the sight of the modern facilities that had become his second home.
As the bus doors hissed open, the team filed out, bags slung over their shoulders, still dressed in their Arsenal training suits. The crisp evening air greeted them, refreshing after the warmth of the bus. Francesco walked with his teammates toward the cafeteria, where a post-match meal awaited them.
The cafeteria was brightly lit and inviting, with tables neatly set and a buffet of warm, hearty dishes spread out along the counters. The aroma of freshly prepared food wafted through the room, instantly making even the most tired players perk up. Wenger and his coaching staff joined the players, their presence a reminder of the strong camaraderie within the squad.
As the players lined up to fill their plates, the conversations flowed naturally. Mikel Arteta, always a calm and composed figure, leaned over to Giroud and joked about his goal celebration. "Oli, that knee slide looked a bit shaky tonight. Been skipping your gym sessions?"
Giroud chuckled, shaking his head. "Careful, Mikel, or I'll take you on in the next fitness drill."
Francesco grabbed a plate and took some roasted chicken, pasta, and a generous helping of steamed vegetables. He settled at a table with Theo Walcott, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Aaron Ramsey, who were deep in discussion about a new movie they'd all seen.
"Francesco," Theo called out, looking up from his plate, "you're not much of a movie guy, are you? You've got to see this one. Action, drama, comedy—it's got everything."
Francesco grinned, shaking his head. "I haven't had much time lately, but I'll add it to my list. What's it called?"
"*Edge of Tomorrow*," Ramsey said. "You'd like it. It's about a guy who keeps living the same day over and over, getting better each time."
Francesco laughed. "Sounds like how I feel during training—repeating drills until I finally get it right."
Nearby, Per Mertesacker and Laurent Koscielny were discussing their families, with Per sharing a funny story about his young son's obsession with football. "He insists on wearing his Arsenal shirt to bed every night. My wife's had to hide it just to wash it!"
On another table, Wenger sat with the coaching staff, enjoying a quiet meal. Though his demeanor was calm, anyone who knew him well could see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Tonight had been a good night for Arsenal, and the team was starting to click in a way that promised great things.
Francesco listened to his teammates' banter, chiming in occasionally but mostly enjoying the atmosphere. It was moments like these that made him grateful to be part of such a close-knit group. Despite the competition and the pressures of professional football, the camaraderie among the players was undeniable.
As the meal progressed, the conversations shifted to more personal topics. Theo asked Francesco about his family. "How are they holding up with all the attention you've been getting?"
"They're good," Francesco said, smiling. "My mom still sends me texts before every match reminding me to eat properly and stay warm. And my dad... well, he's just enjoying the perks of having a son in the Premier League."
"He's got bragging rights for life," Alex said with a laugh. "Does he come to your matches?"
"When he can," Francesco replied. "He's got work, but I'm trying to bring ask him to more games. He loves it."
The conversation soon turned to travel plans during their next break, with Ramsey excitedly describing a hiking trip he was planning in Wales. "You should come along, Francesco," he offered. "It's great for clearing your mind."
Francesco laughed. "I'll think about it. But I don't know if I'm ready for your pace. You'd probably leave me behind."
As the meal wound down, the players began to trickle out of the cafeteria, some heading to their cars to drive home, others staying behind for a bit of extra relaxation. Wenger and the coaching staff also excused themselves, heading to the staff room for a brief meeting. From the snippets of conversation Francesco overheard, it seemed they were planning to analyze tonight's game further and prepare for the week ahead.
Francesco lingered at the table, finishing the last of his pasta. He was in no rush to leave. The buzz of the match, the interactions with fans, and the warmth of his teammates' company had left him in a reflective mood. He thought about Jake, the young boy who was about to take his first step into the world of football trials. Francesco had seen the hope and determination in his eyes and felt a responsibility to encourage him. After all, it wasn't long ago that he had been in Jake's shoes, dreaming of making it big.
"Still here, Francesco?" a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Santi Cazorla, who had returned for a cup of tea.
"Yeah," Francesco said with a smile. "Just soaking it all in."
Santi nodded, his ever-cheerful expression softening. "You're doing well, kid. Keep your feet on the ground, and the sky's the limit."
"Thanks, Santi. That means a lot," Francesco replied sincerely.
As the night wore on, Francesco finally stood, stretching and grabbing his bag. The drive home would be quiet, giving him time to replay the night's events in his mind. But before he left, he paused to take one last look at the cafeteria, where the remnants of a victorious evening lingered—a group of teammates united not just by their love for football but by the bonds they had formed on and off the pitch.
After everyone had finished their meal, the atmosphere in the Arsenal Training Centre cafeteria began to quiet down. One by one, the players got up, some stretching or jokingly groaning about the late hour, and made their way toward the exit. Outside, the team cars gleamed under the soft lights of the parking lot. Most players climbed into their vehicles, their conversations from the cafeteria continuing in pairs or small groups as they prepared to head home.
Francesco stepped outside with his teammates, his breath forming small clouds in the cool night air. Instead of heading toward the parking lot, however, he veered off to where his bicycle was secured. It was an unusual sight among the lineup of luxury cars, but Francesco had always preferred the simplicity of cycling. It gave him a sense of freedom and a chance to clear his head after long days like this one.
"Still with the bike, eh?" Theo called out as he slid into his car. "Mate, you're the only Premier League player who doesn't drive something with 300 horsepower."
Francesco laughed, pulling on his gloves. "And yet I'll probably beat you home in this London traffic."
"Touché," Theo replied with a chuckle before driving off.
Francesco swung his leg over the bike and began pedaling, the rhythmic motion soothing as he navigated through the quiet streets. The city felt different at night—calmer, more introspective. The hum of distant traffic and the occasional chatter of late-night pedestrians were his only companions as he weaved through familiar routes. His thoughts drifted to the game, to Jake, and to the endless possibilities that lay ahead.
When he finally turned onto his street, the sight of his dad's car parked in the driveway brought a smile to his face. Mike Lee had a demanding job, and it wasn't often that he got home early enough to spend much time with the family. Francesco parked his bike next to the house and unlocked the front door, stepping into the warm, welcoming glow of the living room.
The smell of dinner still lingered in the air—a mix of spices and something roasted. Francesco kicked off his shoes and walked into the dining room, where he found his mom, Sarah, and his dad, Mike, just finishing their meal. The sight of them together, laughing over some shared joke, brought a wave of warmth to Francesco's chest.
"Hey, kiddo!" Mike greeted him, his face lighting up as he set down his glass. "Heard you had a stormer of a game tonight. Five-one, right?"
"Yeah," Francesco replied with a grin, dropping his bag by the door and moving to give his mom a quick kiss on the cheek. "We played well. The crowd was electric."
"Electric is an understatement," Sarah said, her tone teasing. "Your dad was yelling at the TV so loud, I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call the cops."
"Can you blame me?" Mike said with a chuckle. "That assist for Rosicky was pure magic. And your goal? Out of this world."
Francesco pulled up a chair, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the table. "Thanks, Dad. It felt good out there. But it's not just me; the whole team was clicking tonight."
"That's what I like to hear," Mike said, leaning back in his chair. "Humble, even when you're the best player on the pitch."
Sarah smiled fondly at her son. "You look tired, sweetheart. Did you eat enough at the Training Centre?"
"More than enough, Mom," Francesco assured her, taking a bite of the apple. "But I'm glad I got home early enough to see you both. How was your day?"
Sarah launched into a story about a funny mishap at the grocery store, while Mike shared a brief update on a project at work that was finally wrapping up. The conversation was easy, filled with the kind of lighthearted chatter that made Francesco feel grounded, no matter how big his world had gotten in recent months.
As they talked, Francesco couldn't help but think about how lucky he was. No matter how hectic or demanding his career became, home was always a place of warmth and support. It was here, in moments like this, that he could recharge and remember why he played the game in the first place—not for the fame or the accolades, but for the love of it and for the people who believed in him from the very beginning.
After a while, Sarah stood up to clear the table, and Francesco helped her, earning a gentle scolding for not heading straight to bed. "You've had a long day," she said, but her tone was filled with affection.
"I'll sleep soon, I promise," Francesco replied, stacking plates on the counter.
Mike clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by. "You've made us proud, son. Always."
"Thanks, Dad," Francesco said, his voice soft. He didn't always know how to express it, but moments like these meant the world to him.
As the house settled into quiet for the night, Francesco made his way up to his room. He placed his match trophy on the shelf beside the others, then sat on the edge of his bed, his mind replaying the events of the day. From the roar of the Emirates to the quiet support of his family, it had been a night to remember.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling, his heart full. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to grow. But for now, Francesco let himself savor the moment, a smile tugging at his lips as he drifted off to sleep.
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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: 8
Assist: 2
MOTM: 3
PERTIMBANGAN PENCIPTA 
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