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Arsenal had fought bravely. They had come so close. But in the end, Juventus, led by their magician in midfield and their legend in goal, had found a way to go through to the semi final of the champions league.
The final whistle echoed around the Emirates like a cruel, hollow reminder of what could have been.
Francesco stayed where he was, hands on his knees, staring at the grass beneath him. His mind refused to process it—the loss, the heartbreak, the sheer frustration of knowing they had done everything right, and yet it still wasn't enough. His chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths. Then, slowly, as the weight of the moment crashed over him, he let himself sink onto the pitch, lying face down. His body trembled, and anyone watching closely could see—he was crying.
Not loudly, not dramatically, but the kind of quiet, heart-wrenching sobs that came when there were no more words left to say.
Wenger had seen many things in his career. He had witnessed triumphs and tragedies, seen players break down in joy and despair, but this moment struck him differently. Francesco was young, still just 16 and will turn 17 at November, but he had carried so much expectation. And tonight, despite giving everything, he had to endure the cruelest lesson football had to offer.
Wenger sighed and walked toward him. As he approached, he could hear the barely audible gasps of air Francesco took, trying and failing to steady himself. The veteran manager crouched beside him, placing a gentle hand on his back.
"You played your heart out tonight, Francesco," Wenger said softly. "You gave everything."
Francesco didn't respond, his face still pressed against the grass.
"I know this hurts," Wenger continued. "It's supposed to. It means you care."
For a long moment, there was nothing but the distant cheers of the Juventus players celebrating with their away fans, a sound that felt like salt in an open wound.
Eventually, Francesco turned his head slightly, his cheek resting against the pitch, his red eyes looking at Wenger. His voice came out in a whisper.
"We were so close…"
Wenger nodded. "I know. But football can be cruel. Sometimes, you do everything right, and it's still not enough. But nights like these? They make you stronger."
Francesco swallowed hard and forced himself to sit up, his head hanging low as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his jersey. The rest of the Arsenal players were scattered across the field, some exchanging handshakes with Juventus, others simply standing there, lost in thought.
As Francesco slowly got to his feet, his eyes wandered toward the VIP box.
Leah Williamson, his girlfriend, sat frozen in her seat. She had been gripping the edge of her chair for the last few minutes, her knuckles white, hoping—praying—that somehow Arsenal would find a way. But now, seeing Francesco on the pitch like that, seeing the way his body shook with quiet devastation, something inside her broke.
Beside her, Sarah and Mike, Francesco's parents, were just as heartbroken. Sarah's lips were pressed together in a thin line, her eyes glistening. She had always known how much football meant to her son, how much he had sacrificed to be here. And to see him like this—utterly shattered—was unbearable.
"I need to go to him," Leah said suddenly, her voice tight with emotion.
Sarah nodded. "Me too."
They immediately turned to one of the Arsenal staff members standing nearby.
"Please," Leah pleaded. "Can we go down to the pitch?"
The staff member hesitated. "I'm sorry, but we can't allow anyone on the field right now. The players need a moment."
Sarah clenched her fists, frustration flickering across her face. "He's our son," she said, her voice firmer now. "He needs us."
The staff member looked conflicted but shook his head. "I understand, but club protocol—"
"Please," Leah tried again, desperation creeping into her voice.
The staff member exhaled before softening slightly. "Look, I can't take you to the pitch right now. But I can bring you downstairs after they've finished changing. You'll be able to see him in the players' area."
It wasn't ideal, but it was something.
Sarah nodded reluctantly, gripping Mike's hand tightly. Leah, however, couldn't tear her eyes away from Francesco, who was now walking slowly off the pitch with his teammates, his head down, his jersey drenched in sweat and his own quiet grief.
He had given everything. And it still wasn't enough.
As Francesco trudged toward the tunnel, his mind was a blur. His legs felt heavy, not just from exhaustion but from the weight of disappointment pressing down on him. Around him, his teammates walked in silence, some with their hands on their hips, others with their heads down.
The Juventus players, having finished their celebrations with their traveling supporters, began making their way toward the Arsenal squad. For all the fierce competition over the past ninety minutes, there was still a deep mutual respect among the players.
Francesco barely noticed as a figure approached him until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned slightly and found himself looking up at Gianluigi Buffon.
The legendary goalkeeper gave him a kind smile, the lines on his face etched with years of experience. "Hey, ragazzo," Buffon said gently. "Tough night, huh?"
Francesco swallowed hard and nodded, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. His throat was too tight.
Buffon sighed, giving Francesco's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You played brilliantly tonight. I mean that."
Francesco exhaled shakily, forcing himself to meet Buffon's eyes. There was no pity, but just genuine admiration for a player.
"I… I tried," Francesco finally murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Buffon nodded. "And that's all you can do in football. Sometimes, even when you give everything, the result doesn't go your way. But you—" he gestured at Francesco, his expression sincere "—you have something special."
Francesco looked down, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It doesn't feel like it right now."
Buffon chuckled softly. "I know. But trust me, I've been on both sides of nights like this. I've felt the sting of losing when you know you deserved more. But that's what makes the victories, when they do come, so much sweeter."
Francesco exhaled deeply, his chest still tight with frustration and disappointment.
Buffon tilted his head slightly. "How about we trade shirts?"
Francesco blinked in surprise, looking up at the Italian. "Really?"
Buffon grinned. "Of course. You gave me a hell of a game tonight."
For the first time since the final whistle, Francesco felt something other than pain—that is a recognition. He nodded and reached down, peeling his sweat-soaked Arsenal jersey off. Buffon did the same, then the two exchanged shirts.
As Francesco held Buffon's iconic black Juventus keeper jersey in his hands, he couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence. This wasn't just any player—it was Gianluigi Buffon, one of the greatest goalkeepers of all time. And he had chosen to swap shirts with him.
Buffon placed a hand on Francesco's head, ruffling his damp hair slightly like an older brother or a mentor. "Keep your head up, Francesco. You're still young. You have a bright future ahead of you."
Francesco bit his lower lip, trying to keep his emotions in check. "Thank you, Buffon."
Buffon smiled and gave him a final pat on the back before walking away to join his teammates.
As Francesco stood there for a moment, staring down at the jersey in his hands, he felt a strange mix of emotions. The pain of the loss was still raw, but there was something else too—an ember of determination that refused to be extinguished.
As Francesco walked into the dressing room, the atmosphere was heavy with disappointment. The silence was suffocating. Some players sat slumped in their seats, staring at the floor, while others leaned back against their lockers, eyes closed, trying to process the loss. The air smelled of sweat and exhaustion, the kind that settled deep into the bones after giving everything on the pitch.
Francesco lowered himself onto the bench, his body aching, his heart heavier than ever. The Juventus jersey in his hands felt almost out of place now—like a cruel reminder of what could have been. He exhaled sharply and rubbed his face, trying to push away the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
The door opened, and Arsène Wenger walked in.
He didn't say anything at first, simply stepping inside and surveying the room. His gaze moved across each player, taking in their slumped shoulders, their defeated expressions. He had been in this situation countless times before, but this one felt different. His young team had fought bravely, played some of the best football they had all season, and still, it wasn't enough.
Wenger sighed and took a step forward. "I don't need to tell you that I'm proud of you," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You already know that. Every single one of you gave everything out there tonight."
No one spoke.
Wenger folded his arms, his eyes landing briefly on Francesco, who was still looking down at his hands. The boy had been outstanding. He had played with the fearlessness of a veteran, not a 16-year-old in his first major European knockout stage.
"This is football," Wenger continued. "Sometimes, you do everything right, and the result still doesn't go your way. But what matters is how you respond to nights like this." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "Because this—" he gestured around at the exhausted players "—this is where champions are made."
A few heads lifted at that.
Francesco took a shaky breath, feeling the words settle in his chest. He wanted to believe them, but right now, the loss felt like a weight he couldn't shake off.
"Tonight hurts," Wenger admitted. "And it should. It means you care. It means you wanted it. But don't let this define you." His voice softened slightly. "I've been in football long enough to know that sometimes, the most painful nights are the ones that shape the future."
There was a long silence.
Some of the senior players nodded slightly, absorbing his words, while others remained lost in their thoughts.
Then, Mezut Ozil, spoke up. "We keep going," he said simply. His voice was quiet but steady. "We don't let this break us."
A few murmurs of agreement followed. Per Mertesacker patted Ozil on the back, and Laurent Koscielny, usually a man of few words, gave a firm nod.
Francesco clenched his fists. He wanted to move forward. He wanted to take this pain and use it, to turn it into fuel. But right now, it still burned too much.
Wenger seemed to understand. He gave the team a small nod. "Get some rest," he said. "We have work to do at the premier league and the FA Cup."
With that, he turned and left the room, leaving the players to process the night in their own way.
Some players began quietly changing, others remained seated, staring at the floor. Francesco stayed where he was, Buffon's jersey still in his hands. He glanced at it again, then finally set it aside, exhaling deeply.
Francesco then went to the shower room and stood under the warm shower, letting the water cascade over his head and down his back. He pressed his palms against the cold tiles, his breathing steady but his mind restless. The sting of the loss still clung to him, refusing to wash away with the sweat and exhaustion.
The game kept replaying in his head—the moments where he could have done more, the near-misses, the final whistle that sealed their fate. He had given everything, and yet, it hadn't been enough.
With a deep sigh, he turned off the water and stepped out. The dressing room was quieter now. Some players had already left, while others were still getting changed in silence. Francesco grabbed a towel and dried himself off quickly before pulling on a clean Arsenal tracksuit.
He sat down by his locker, methodically packing his duffel bag. His boots, shin guards, and used kit went inside, followed by Buffon's jersey, which he folded carefully before placing it on top. He stared at it for a moment, running his fingers over the Juventus crest. It felt surreal that Buffon had chosen to swap shirts with him.
A part of him wanted to be proud of that—wanted to see it as a sign that he belonged at this level. But tonight, all he could feel was the bitter weight of falling short.
Zipping up his bag, he slung it over his shoulder and took a deep breath. He had to face reality now. The game was over, and life moved on, whether he liked it or not.
As he pushed open the dressing room door, he immediately spotted an Arsenal staff member waiting outside. The man's expression softened when he saw Francesco.
"Your family is here," the staff member said gently, stepping aside.
Francesco barely had time to process before he saw them—his mother, Sarah, his father, Mike, and his girlfriend, Leah Williamson, walking toward him.
Leah reached him first. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. Francesco hesitated for half a second before exhaling and leaning into the embrace. He closed his eyes as he felt Leah's fingers gently trace soothing circles on his back.
"I'm so proud of you," she murmured against his shoulder.
Francesco swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He wanted to respond, to tell her that it didn't feel like enough, but the words stuck in his throat.
When Leah finally pulled back, her green eyes searched his face, filled with concern. "You okay?" she asked softly.
Francesco hesitated. Was he okay? He wasn't sure. The loss was still raw, still burning in his chest. But looking at Leah, at the way she was looking at him—like he was more than just this moment, more than just a result—it made him feel a little less alone.
"I will be," he finally said, his voice quiet but firm.
Leah gave him a small, knowing smile before stepping aside so his parents could approach.
His mother, Sarah, cupped his face with both hands, her eyes glistening with emotion. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispered. "You were brilliant out there."
Francesco let out a shaky breath, shaking his head. "We lost, Mom."
Sarah didn't budge. "And? That doesn't change how proud I am of you." Her thumbs brushed lightly over his cheeks, the way she had done since he was a little boy. "You fought. You gave everything. That's all that matters."
His father, Mike, clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "She's right, son. I've seen a lot of football in my time, and tonight? You looked like you belonged out there with the best of them."
Francesco exhaled, looking away. "Doesn't feel like it."
Mike sighed, squeezing his shoulder. "I know. But trust me, this—this is just the beginning. Nights like this will make you stronger. You'll learn from it, and next time, you'll be even better."
Francesco looked between them, the unwavering belief in their eyes. It didn't erase the disappointment, but it helped. Just a little.
Sarah smiled warmly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Francesco's forehead. "Come to my place tonight," she said softly. "I'll make you your favorite meal. You need a good home-cooked dinner after a night like this."
Francesco felt a small flicker of comfort at the thought. His mother's cooking had always been his safe haven, something steady when everything else felt chaotic. A warm plate of pasta, a quiet evening at home—it sounded nice.
Sarah turned to Leah with a gentle expression. "You should come too, Leah. I know Francesco would love the company."
Leah glanced at Francesco, searching his face as if to make sure he really wanted that. He gave her a small nod, his lips pressing into something that was almost a smile. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
"I'd love to," Leah said, her hand finding Francesco's again and giving it a squeeze.
Francesco exhaled through his nose, the weight of the night still pressing down on him but feeling just a little bit lighter in this moment. He looked at his mom and nodded. "I'll come by," he said quietly.
Sarah beamed, rubbing his arm before finally stepping back. "Good. I'll see you soon, sweetheart."
Francesco adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, feeling the exhaustion settle deeper into his bones. He looked at them—his mother, his father, Leah—people who cared about him beyond football, beyond this loss. It grounded him.
But there was still one more thing he had to do.
"I should get to the team bus," he said, his voice steady but weary.
Mike gave him an approving nod. "Go on, son. We'll see you later."
Leah leaned in and kissed his cheek softly. "I'll be waiting for you."
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.
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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