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Francesco gave her a small, appreciative look before turning toward the players exit where the bus was waiting. As he walked away, he could still hear his mother telling Leah about the dishes she planned to make, and for the first time since the match ended, a tiny, tired smile crossed his lips.
Francesco walked towards the team bus, his footsteps slow and deliberate. The cool night air did little to ease the frustration still simmering in his chest. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, the weight of Buffon's jersey pressing against his side like a reminder of the night that had just unfolded.
As he approached, he saw that most of his teammates were already seated inside, their faces etched with exhaustion. The mood was subdued—some players had their headphones in, drowning out the world, while others simply stared blankly ahead, lost in their thoughts. He climbed the steps and slid into an empty seat near the window, dropping his bag beside him.
A quick glance around told him that Arsène Wenger and Per Mertesacker were missing. That meant they were still in the post-match press conference, facing the media, answering the inevitable questions about what went wrong and what Arsenal could take from the defeat.
Francesco exhaled and leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment.
Under the bright lights of the press conference room, Arsène Wenger sat with his usual composed expression, though there was an unmistakable weariness in his eyes. Beside him, Per Mertesacker, the team's experienced center-back and captain, had his arms crossed, his jaw set.
Journalists filled the room, cameras flashing as the first questions started pouring in.
"Arsène, commiserations on the result. It was a tough match—Arsenal played well, but Juventus managed to hold on. What are your thoughts on the performance?"
Wenger nodded slightly, his voice calm yet firm. "It is always difficult to lose in a game like this, especially when we played with such heart. I think we showed quality, determination, and ambition. Juventus is a very strong team with great experience in these situations, but I am proud of my players. They gave everything."
The next question was sharper. "Despite the strong performance, Arsenal failed to score. Do you feel the team lacks a cutting edge in big European matches?"
Wenger sighed, choosing his words carefully. "I think we created chances, but at this level, you have to be clinical. Juventus defended well, and Buffon showed why he is one of the greatest goalkeepers in history. We will learn from this, and we will improve."
A reporter from an Italian sports outlet spoke next. "Mr. Wenger, Francesco Lee swapped shirts with Gianluigi Buffon after the match. Buffon was seen speaking to him for a while on the pitch. Do you know what was said?"
Wenger allowed himself a small smile. "I do not know exactly, but I can imagine Buffon, with all his experience, gave him words of encouragement. When a player like Buffon takes time to speak with you, it means you have done something right."
Mertesacker chuckled slightly. "Buffon doesn't just swap shirts with anyone. Francesco earned that moment."
Another journalist raised their hand. "Per, as captain, what do you say to the team after a loss like this?"
Mertesacker exhaled. "The same thing the boss tells us. We keep going. This is football—sometimes you play well and still don't get the result. But what matters is how we respond. We have important matches ahead in the Premier League and FA Cup. We can't let this defeat define us."
Wenger nodded in agreement. "We will take the lessons from this and move forward."
The press conference continued, the atmosphere growing slightly more tense as another journalist, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a determined expression, raised his hand.
"Arsène, while Francesco Lee managed to score, his overall performance tonight was questionable. Buffon and the Juventus defenders nullified almost all of his attempts, and he wasted several chances that could have helped Arsenal win. Shouldn't he have been more clinical?"
There was a brief silence in the room. The question was pointed—almost accusatory. A murmur passed through the journalists as all eyes turned toward Wenger.
The Arsenal manager's jaw tightened slightly. He took a slow breath before responding, his voice calm but carrying a steel edge.
"Let me be very clear," Wenger said, leaning slightly forward. "Yes, Francesco had chances that he did not convert. But so did Alexis Sánchez. So did Olivier Giroud. So did Aaron Ramsey and the others. This was not a match lost by one man. It is easy to look at a young player and place blame on him because he is new to this level, but if you actually watched the game, you would see that Francesco played superbly."
His eyes scanned the room, challenging anyone to disagree.
"He showed courage, he worked tirelessly, and he tried to lead this team to victory. He was involved in every major attacking move we had. He was relentless. It is not just about scoring goals—it is about creating danger, making defenders uncomfortable, and forcing world-class players like Buffon to perform at their best. And Buffon was a god today. He saved everything we threw at him except for Francesco's goal. That is not a failure of one player. That is the brilliance of an all-time great goalkeeper."
Mertesacker, who had remained silent during Wenger's response, now spoke up, his voice measured but firm.
"Football is a team sport," the captain said. "If we win, we win together. If we lose, we lose together. Francesco fought hard tonight. He didn't shy away from the responsibility of carrying the attack. He took risks, he kept pushing, and even in the dying moments of the game, he was still trying to make something happen. We respect that. We appreciate that. No one in our dressing room is pointing fingers at him."
The journalist who had asked the question shifted in his seat, clearly not expecting such a strong defense.
Another reporter quickly jumped in, shifting the topic slightly. "Arsène, how do you think Francesco will respond to this experience? This was his first major European knockout match, and he has received a lot of attention lately. Will this defeat affect his confidence?"
Wenger shook his head. "No, I do not believe so. Francesco is mentally strong. He has already experienced a lot for a player his age, and he has the right mindset to grow from this. He will analyze what went wrong, and he will improve. That is the kind of player he is."
The press officer, sensing the growing tension in the room, decided it was time to wrap things up. "Last question," she announced.
A final reporter raised their hand. "Arsène, you mentioned earlier that Juventus' experience played a big role in tonight's result. What does Arsenal need to do to reach that level?"
Wenger sighed slightly but nodded. "We need to keep building. Experience is not something you can buy overnight. It comes with playing matches like these, learning from them, and coming back stronger. We have a young squad, but we have talent and ambition. We will take this lesson, and next time, we will be better. Beside we outmatch them today, but we just lost to one man and that is Gianluigi Buffon.
With that, the press conference came to an end. Wenger and Mertesacker stood, exchanging brief handshakes with a few journalists before making their way out of the media room.
The night was quiet as Wenger and Mertesacker walked toward the waiting team bus. Inside, the players sat in silence, the sting of the defeat still fresh. Some were scrolling through their phones, others staring blankly out the window.
Francesco remained in his seat near the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. He hadn't checked his phone yet, but he already knew what would be waiting for him—headlines, social media posts, endless debates about his performance. Some would praise his goal, others would criticize his finishing. He exhaled heavily, trying to push those thoughts aside.
As Wenger stepped onto the bus, the players immediately sat up a little straighter. The manager didn't speak for a moment, looking over his squad.
"No long speeches," he finally said, his voice calm but firm. "You already know what I think. You played well, but we must be better. We move forward."
Mertesacker stood beside him, his eyes scanning his teammates. "Heads up, lads. We've got work to do."
There was a brief moment of silence before the bus engine rumbled to life.
The bus ride back to Colney was silent, the weight of the defeat still pressing heavily on the team. Francesco sat with his arms crossed, staring out the window as the dim glow of the streetlights passed by. The night felt endless, the air thick with unspoken frustration.
No one had much to say. A few whispers here and there, a few sighs of exhaustion, but mostly, the players just kept to themselves. Some had their headphones in, others were scrolling through their phones, probably already seeing the headlines dissecting the match.
Francesco still hadn't checked his phone. He knew what would be waiting for him. Articles critiquing his performance, pundits debating whether he should have done better, fans either defending him or tearing him apart. That was just the nature of football, but it didn't make it any easier.
He rested his head back against the seat, Buffon's words still lingering in his mind.
"You played well, kid. Keep your head up. Nights like these make you stronger."
He exhaled through his nose. He wanted to believe that. But right now, all he could feel was the sting of defeat.
When the bus finally pulled into London Colney, the players stirred from their quiet contemplation. They gathered their bags, stretching out their stiff limbs as they stepped out into the cold night air.
Francesco grabbed his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, nodding to his teammates as they muttered their goodbyes.
"See you tomorrow," Mertesacker said, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder before heading toward his car.
Francesco managed a small nod. "Yeah. See you."
Most of the team had already left by the time he reached his own car—a black Honda Civic parked near the exit. He tossed his bag into the passenger seat, rubbing his eyes before sliding in behind the wheel.
He didn't go straight home to his apartment. Not tonight.
Instead, he turned onto the familiar roads leading to his parents' house.
The drive was quiet, just the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of headlights passing him by. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, and for once, he was grateful for the solitude.
As he pulled into the driveway of his childhood home, he could already see the lights on inside.
They were waiting for him.
He took a deep breath before stepping out of the car. The front door opened before he even reached it, and his mother, Sarah, was the first to greet him.
"Francesco," she murmured, pulling him into a warm hug.
He hesitated for a moment before finally allowing himself to sink into her embrace. The smell of her cooking filled the air, familiar and comforting. It reminded him of simpler days—days before the pressure of professional football, before the expectations, before the headlines.
When she pulled back, she cupped his face with her hands, studying him closely. "You look exhausted."
He forced a small smile. "Long night."
His father, Mike, was standing just behind her, his arms crossed. "Tough game," he said simply.
Francesco nodded. "Yeah."
Then, before he could say anything else, a softer voice spoke up from the living room.
"Hey."
Leah.
She was sitting on the couch, her blonde hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing arsenal hoodies. Her eyes were filled with understanding, no trace of judgment or disappointment—just warmth.
Francesco let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding.
His mother gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Come on, I made your favorite."
He followed her into the kitchen, the aroma of home-cooked pasta filling the space. A plate was already set for him on the table—spaghetti carbonara, his comfort food.
For the first time that night, he felt his shoulders relax a little.
Leah sat across from him, watching as he twirled the pasta around his fork. He took a bite, and the warmth of the food melted away a small part of the frustration he had been carrying.
Sarah and Mike sat with him, talking about anything but football.
It was exactly what he needed.
As the night went on, Leah eventually reached for his hand, giving it a small squeeze.
"You're too hard on yourself," she said softly.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable.
She continued, her voice gentle but firm. "You played well, Francesco. Buffon was just… Buffon. No one was getting past him tonight."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. It's just—" He shook his head. "It doesn't make it easier."
She nodded in understanding. "No, it doesn't. But you'll learn from it. And you'll come back stronger."
His parents had already said their goodnights, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet warmth of the kitchen.
Francesco looked down at their joined hands.
Maybe she was right. Maybe nights like these really did make you stronger, because you doesn't want to taste another defeat. But for now, he just wanted to sit here, in the comfort of home, and forget about football for a little while.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 28
Goal: 33
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8