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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Back at Arsenal, two young Hale End boys were probably still smiling about their first real day as senior players.
The drive back to Richmond passed the way most journeys with Leah tended to pass these days.
Comfortably.
Naturally.
Without either of them feeling the need to fill every silence.
Outside the BMW windows, winter rolled across Hertfordshire beneath pale skies and bare trees. Traffic moved steadily along damp roads while radio presenters continued discussing football stories that had already become old news inside dressing rooms.
The media was still obsessed with the Wenger-Mourinho saga.
Naturally.
The football world loved drama.
Meanwhile the people actually involved had already moved on.
Leah sat curled slightly in her seat, one hand wrapped around a takeaway coffee she had picked up before leaving London Colney.
"You know they're still talking about it?"
Francesco glanced over.
"Talking about what?"
"The press conference."
He groaned immediately.
"Of course they are."
"They replayed it twice while I was getting treatment."
"That should count as cruel and unusual punishment."
Leah laughed.
"It was funny."
"It was not."
"It absolutely was."
Francesco shook his head.
The argument wasn't worth having.
Mostly because she was right.
The entire thing had been ridiculous.
The rest of the afternoon disappeared into something increasingly rare during a football season.
Peace.
No media obligations.
No tactical meetings.
No travel.
No match.
Just home.
Just normal life.
Cheddar greeted them with exactly the enthusiasm Francesco had predicted.
Possibly more.
The corgi launched himself toward the front door before they had even fully entered the house.
His little legs moving at impossible speed.
Tail wagging violently.
The kind of welcome that made it seem like they had been gone for six months instead of several hours.
"Hello to you too."
Cheddar barked.
Demanding attention.
Receiving it immediately.
The evening passed quietly.
Dinner.
Football on television.
Leah eventually stealing half of Francesco's blanket despite owning her own.
An argument that had somehow become a weekly tradition.
Then sleep.
And after that…
The days began moving.
Fast.
Because football never waited.
Training sessions followed one another.
Recovery work.
Tactical preparation.
Meetings.
Video analysis.
Gym sessions.
Cold mornings.
Floodlit evenings.
The relentless rhythm of a professional season.
December pressed onward.
The squad remained in good spirits after recent victories.
Confidence had settled throughout the group.
Not arrogance.
Just belief.
The sort of belief that came from preparation and results.
At London Colney, Saka and Smith Rowe continued integrating into first-team life.
Each day they looked a little more comfortable.
A little more confident.
The nervous academy players from their first morning gradually disappearing beneath growing familiarity.
Now they joked with senior players.
Participated in conversations.
Asked questions.
Learned.
Improved.
Exactly as Wenger had hoped.
Exactly as Arsenal had always wanted.
Football generations blending together.
Veterans helping youngsters.
Youngsters pushing veterans.
The cycle continuing.
And eventually matchday arrived once again, as the final Champions League group-stage match.
Arsenal against Spartak Moscow.
Emirates Stadium.
A cold London evening.
One more European night before attention shifted toward the knockout stages.
The team bus rolled steadily through North London beneath darkening skies.
Streetlights reflected against damp roads while supporters gathered around the stadium hours before kickoff.
Inside the bus, the atmosphere was calm.
Focused.
Professional.
Not nervous.
Not tense.
This group had played too many important matches together for that.
Most players sat quietly.
Headphones.
Music.
Phones.
Personal routines.
The familiar rituals footballers performed before every match.
Francesco sat near the front.
Looking out the window.
Watching the Emirates gradually grow larger as they approached.
No matter how many times he arrived here, something about it never became ordinary.
Home stadiums were strange that way.
Familiar.
Yet still special.
Across the aisle, Ozil sat quietly reviewing something on his tablet.
Probably tactical footage.
Possibly highlights.
Potentially horse videos.
With Mesut, it could genuinely be any of those.
A few rows behind them, Walker was explaining something dramatic to Robertson.
Judging by Robertson's expression, it was probably nonsense.
Definitely nonsense.
Near the rear of the bus, Sánchez looked ready to play immediately.
The Chilean somehow always appeared as though kickoff had already happened.
Intensity practically radiated from him.
Eventually the stadium appeared fully outside the windows.
Huge.
Illuminated.
Waiting.
The Emirates.
Their home.
The bus slowed.
Security personnel guided them through the arrival area.
Supporters gathered nearby.
Phones raised.
Scarves waving.
Children shouting players' names.
The familiar sounds of matchday.
Francesco felt the bus finally stop.
A small silence settled over the squad.
Not awkward.
Just instinctive.
The moment before arrival.
Then players stood.
Bags collected.
Jackets adjusted.
Focus sharpening.
Match mode.
The doors opened.
Cold evening air immediately rushed inside.
And one by one the Arsenal players stepped off the bus.
Flashbulbs flickered.
Supporters cheered.
Television cameras followed every movement.
The atmosphere felt different on European nights.
It always did.
Something about the Champions League carried its own energy.
Its own identity.
Its own weight.
Francesco stepped onto the pavement and looked briefly toward the stadium entrance.
Bright lights.
Club staff.
Security.
Media.
Everything moving with organized purpose.
The captain adjusted the strap of his bag before heading inside alongside his teammates.
The corridors beneath the Emirates buzzed with activity.
Staff members moved quickly.
Equipment managers prepared final details.
Medical personnel checked supplies.
Coaches discussed plans.
Every matchday looked chaotic.
Every matchday functioned perfectly.
Eventually the squad reached the dressing room.
Their dressing room.
Home.
The atmosphere immediately shifted.
Players settled into familiar spaces.
Bags opened.
Boots unpacked.
Training gear prepared.
Conversations remained quiet.
Focused.
Comfortable.
The giant tactical board already displayed Wenger's notes.
The Arsenal shirts hung neatly around the room.
Waiting.
For now, though, training kits came first.
Warm-up before battle.
One by one players changed.
The sounds of preparation filled the room.
Velcro.
Tape.
Zippers.
Conversations.
Music playing softly overhead.
Eventually everyone was ready.
The team emerged from the dressing room and headed toward the pitch.
The moment they stepped through the tunnel entrance and saw the stadium opening before them, the familiar sensation returned.
The Emirates under floodlights.
Beautiful.
Powerful.
Alive.
Supporters were already filling the stands.
Thousands upon thousands of people.
Scarves.
Flags.
Voices.
Expectation.
The grass looked perfect beneath the lights.
Bright green despite winter conditions.
The sort of surface players dreamed about.
Warm-ups began immediately.
Passing drills.
Movement patterns.
Finishing exercises.
Acceleration work.
Everything designed to prepare bodies and minds for the ninety minutes ahead.
Francesco moved through the drills comfortably.
His touch felt sharp.
His legs felt good.
The bruise from Manchester United still existed.
But tonight it was irrelevant.
Adrenaline handled the rest.
Nearby, Gnabry looked lively.
Sánchez looked dangerous.
Ozil looked effortless.
Van Dijk looked like a man who had been built specifically to win headers.
The squad moved smoothly.
Confidently.
A team familiar with one another.
A team understanding one another.
As warm-up ended, applause drifted from sections of the crowd.
Players acknowledged supporters before jogging back toward the tunnel.
The real work was about to begin.
⸻
Back inside the dressing room, the atmosphere changed completely.
The relaxed warm-up mood vanished.
Now came concentration.
Now came preparation.
Training kits disappeared.
Match kits emerged.
The famous red and white shirts.
White sleeves.
White shorts.
Red socks.
Arsenal.
One by one players pulled them on.
The transformation always felt symbolic.
Training was over.
Competition had arrived.
Francesco adjusted the captain's armband.
Across the room, players finished lacing boots.
Tape was checked.
Shin pads secured.
Final preparations.
Eventually Wenger entered.
Immediately conversations stopped.
The manager moved toward the center of the room.
Calm.
Composed.
Experienced.
The room listened.
As it always did.
"The starting eleven remains unchanged."
Several players nodded.
Expected.
Then Wenger continued.
"Except for two changes."
The tactical board displayed the lineup.
"Monreal replaces Robertson."
The Spanish defender nodded.
"Bellerin replaces Walker."
Bellerin looked ready.
Walker pointed dramatically at himself.
"I've been robbed."
Nobody reacted.
"Nobody?"
Still nothing.
"Unbelievable."
Even Wenger's lips twitched slightly.
The room relaxed briefly.
Then focus returned.
The manager began discussing tactical details.
Possession.
Movement.
Defensive structure.
Transitions.
Everything delivered with the calm precision that had defined his career.
Spartak Moscow would defend deep.
Compact.
Organized.
Arsenal needed patience.
Speed.
Creativity.
"We move the ball quickly."
Wenger's voice remained steady.
"We create spaces."
He pointed toward Ozil.
Toward Francesco.
Toward Sánchez.
"We make them uncomfortable."
The players listened carefully.
Every detail mattered.
Every instruction carried purpose.
Finally Wenger looked around the room.
His gaze moving from player to player.
"Play our football."
Simple.
Clear.
Powerful.
The room responded immediately.
A collective understanding.
Time.
⸻
The tunnel waited.
Narrow.
Brightly lit.
Filled with anticipation.
Arsenal players lined up.
Across from them, Spartak Moscow's players formed their own line.
Serious faces.
Focused expressions.
Professional respect.
The familiar tension before kickoff.
Not hostility.
Competition.
The Champions League anthem began filtering through the stadium outside.
That music.
That famous music.
No matter how many times players heard it, it always meant something.
Francesco glanced around briefly.
Young mascots stood proudly beside players.
Referees completed final checks.
Television cameras moved along the lines.
Millions watching.
The tunnel marshal signaled.
Time.
The lines began moving.
Step by step.
Toward the light.
Toward the pitch.
Toward another European night.
The stadium exploded with noise as both teams emerged.
Floodlights illuminated everything.
Supporters rose from their seats.
Scarves lifted.
Voices echoed around the Emirates.
Arsenal walked into position beside the referees.
Spartak Moscow lined up opposite.
The Champions League anthem filled the stadium completely.
For a few moments nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
Just stood listening.
Experiencing it.
The occasion.
The atmosphere.
The significance.
Then came the handshakes.
Referees first.
Then opposition players.
Professional respect.
Professional courtesy.
After that, the traditional team photographs.
Players arranged themselves.
Standing.
Kneeling.
Photographers shouting instructions.
Flashbulbs firing repeatedly.
Another ritual completed.
Finally the captains were called forward.
Francesco walked toward the center circle alongside Spartak Moscow's captain and the main referee.
The coin appeared.
Simple.
Ordinary.
Yet part of football tradition.
The referee explained the process.
Francesco nodded.
The Spartak captain nodded.
The coin flipped.
Spun.
Fell.
The referee looked down.
"Call."
"Right."
The official checked.
Then smiled.
"You win."
Francesco nodded.
"We'll take kickoff."
Decision made.
The captains shook hands.
Returned to their teams.
Everything was ready.
Everything prepared.
Kickoff awaited.
The whistle sounded.
And Arsenal immediately imposed themselves on the match.
The difference in quality became visible almost instantly.
Not because Spartak Moscow lacked ability.
Far from it.
They were Champions League opponents.
A strong side.
Disciplined.
Dangerous.
But Arsenal entered the match with confidence and momentum.
The ball moved quickly.
One touch.
Two touches.
Angles appearing everywhere.
Possession flowed naturally through midfield.
Kanté recovered everything.
Ozil created space where none seemed to exist.
Sánchez pressed like a man possessed.
Francesco drifted across the attacking line searching for opportunities.
Spartak struggled to settle.
Every time they regained possession, Arsenal swarmed them.
Red shirts closing spaces.
Passing lanes disappearing.
Pressure building.
The Emirates responded.
Every successful attack generated more noise.
More belief.
More energy.
Minutes passed.
Chances arrived.
Sánchez forced an early save.
Ozil curled a dangerous ball into the area.
Francesco sent one effort narrowly wide.
The breakthrough felt inevitable.
And eventually…
It arrived.
Nineteenth minute.
Arsenal worked possession beautifully across midfield.
Kanté found Ozil.
Ozil turned elegantly away from pressure.
One touch.
Then another.
The German spotted movement ahead.
A quick pass found Francesco between the lines.
The captain controlled and immediately drew defenders toward him.
Exactly as intended.
Because he had already seen the run.
Gnabry accelerating into space.
Francesco released the pass perfectly.
Weighted just right.
Gnabry burst through.
One touch.
Then another.
The angle narrowing.
The goalkeeper advancing.
The Emirates rose collectively.
And Gnabry finished brilliantly.
Low.
Precise.
Into the corner.
Goal.
The stadium erupted.
Noise crashed across the pitch like a wave.
Gnabry sprinted away celebrating.
Arms wide.
Pure joy.
Teammates chased after him immediately.
Francesco reached him first.
Grabbing the young winger around the shoulders.
"Brilliant!"
Gnabry was grinning.
The crowd continued roaring.
One-nil.
Deserved.
Completely deserved.
The match resumed.
And Arsenal never eased off.
They kept attacking.
Kept pressing.
Kept controlling possession.
Spartak Moscow struggled to escape.
The second goal arrived fifteen minutes later.
Thirty-fourth minute.
Another flowing move.
Another example of Arsenal at their best.
Ozil received possession near the edge of the final third.
Head up immediately.
Scanning.
Searching.
Creating.
Francesco drifted into a pocket of space between defenders.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But Ozil saw it.
Of course he did.
The pass arrived like magic.
Perfectly weighted.
Perfectly timed.
Splitting defenders apart.
Francesco controlled cleanly.
One touch.
Then a second.
The goalkeeper rushed forward.
Too late.
The captain struck low across goal.
The ball kissed the inside of the post.
Then the net.
Goal.
Two-nil.
The Emirates exploded again.
Francesco turned immediately toward the supporters.
Arms raised.
Adrenaline surging.
The noise was deafening.
His teammates surrounded him within seconds.
Ozil arrived smiling.
That quiet Ozil smile.
The one that appeared whenever another assist found its target.
Francesco pointed toward him immediately.
"That's yours."
The German simply shrugged.
As if producing impossible passes was the easiest thing in the world.
The match continued.
Spartak Moscow looked overwhelmed now.
Not defeated.
But overwhelmed.
Arsenal smelled blood.
And before halftime…
They struck again.
Forty-first minute.
Corner kick.
Ozil jogged toward the flag.
The Emirates sensed opportunity.
Inside the penalty area, bodies jostled for position.
Van Dijk stood among them.
Calm.
Powerful.
Patient.
Waiting.
The delivery arrived.
Beautifully struck.
Swinging toward the danger zone.
Van Dijk attacked it like a force of nature.
Rising above everyone.
For a split second he seemed suspended in the air.
Then came the header.
Thunderous.
Unstoppable.
The ball crashed into the net.
Three-nil.
The stadium erupted for a third time.
Van Dijk roared in celebration.
Rare emotion from the usually composed defender.
His teammates swarmed him instantly.
Even Wenger allowed himself a small smile on the touchline.
The Dutchman had earned it.
A perfect header.
A perfect goal.
The remaining minutes of the first half passed with Arsenal still controlling proceedings.
Spartak attempted to respond.
Attempted to find momentum.
But Arsenal remained organized.
Disciplined.
Focused.
The whistle eventually arrived.
Halftime.
Three-nil.
A dominant first-half performance.
Players applauded supporters as they headed toward the tunnel.
Job not finished.
But progressing exactly as planned.
Back inside the dressing room, players dropped onto benches.
Water bottles appeared immediately.
Breathing steadied.
Heart rates gradually lowered.
The atmosphere remained positive.
Confident.
Yet controlled.
Nobody celebrated.
Nobody relaxed completely.
Experienced teams understood the danger of that.
A three-goal lead meant nothing if concentration disappeared.
A few moments later Wenger entered.
The room settled.
The manager stood before his players.
Calm as ever.
Measured as ever.
The noise inside the dressing room gradually faded until only the occasional sound of water bottles and shifting boots remained.
Three-nil.
A comfortable scoreline.
A dangerous scoreline.
Not because Arsenal were in trouble.
Because football had a habit of punishing teams that believed matches were already finished.
Wenger knew that.
Every player in the room knew that.
The manager looked around at his squad.
Sweat still clung to faces.
Breathing had settled.
Adrenaline remained.
But focus was returning.
Exactly what he wanted.
For a few moments, Wenger said nothing.
Just let the room settle.
Then he finally spoke.
"Good."
Simple.
Direct.
The players listened.
"We controlled the first half."
A few heads nodded.
"We moved the ball well."
Another nod.
"We created chances."
The manager paused briefly.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
Not negative.
Just analytical.
"But now the match changes."
Immediately, everyone paid closer attention.
Because this was Wenger.
And Wenger rarely talked unless he had something worth hearing.
The manager pointed toward the tactical board.
"Spartak Moscow have no choice."
He drew a line forward.
"They must attack."
More nods.
Of course they must.
Three goals behind.
Final group match.
Nothing left to lose.
The Russian side would have to take risks.
Push higher.
Commit more players forward.
Leave space behind.
Exactly the sort of situation Wenger loved exploiting.
The Frenchman folded his arms.
"We let them come."
A few players exchanged knowing looks.
Counter-attacking football.
Not Arsenal's traditional identity.
But this squad was flexible.
Intelligent.
Capable of adapting.
Wenger pointed toward the midfield.
"Stay organized."
Toward the defensive line.
"Stay compact."
Then toward the attackers.
"When we win the ball…"
A small pause.
"…we attack quickly."
Now several smiles appeared.
That part sounded enjoyable.
The manager continued.
"Do not force possession."
"Do not chase the game."
"We already control the game."
Another important distinction.
Arsenal didn't need another goal.
Not immediately.
The pressure belonged to Spartak Moscow now.
They would be the ones forced to take chances.
Forced to leave gaps.
Forced to expose themselves.
And Arsenal possessed too much pace and quality to ignore those opportunities.
Wenger looked directly at Francesco.
Then Sanchez.
Then Ozil.
"Be patient."
All three nodded.
Patience wasn't always easy for attacking players.
But tonight it would be valuable.
The manager finished with the same calm authority he always seemed to possess.
"Stay professional."
"Stay focused."
"Finish the job."
That was all.
No dramatic speech.
No shouting.
No theatrics.
Just clarity.
Just trust.
Just Arsène Wenger.
The players rose from their benches moments later.
Energy returning.
Muscles loosening.
Final preparations.
The second half awaited.
The Emirates buzzed beneath the winter night sky as Arsenal emerged from the tunnel once more.
Supporters welcomed them back with applause.
Confident applause.
Satisfied applause.
But nobody inside the stadium believed the work was finished.
Not yet.
The players retook their positions.
Spartak Moscow gathered around their own captain.
The body language had changed.
There was urgency now.
Desperation.
A realization that the second half represented their final opportunity to salvage something from the evening.
The referee checked both sides.
Then blew his whistle.
And the second half began.
Almost immediately the pattern changed.
Exactly as Wenger had predicted.
Spartak Moscow pushed forward aggressively.
Their fullbacks advanced higher.
Midfielders committed numbers forward.
Possession increased.
Pressure increased.
For the first time all evening, Arsenal spent extended periods without the ball.
And that was perfectly fine.
Francesco could almost hear Wenger's instructions in his head.
Stay compact.
Stay patient.
Wait.
The Arsenal shape remained disciplined.
Two organized banks.
Minimal gaps.
Minimal risks.
Spartak circulated possession across midfield.
Attempting to create openings.
Searching for weaknesses.
Finding very few.
Van Dijk dominated aerial duels.
Koscielny anticipated danger before it developed.
Monreal and Bellerin stayed disciplined.
Kanté seemed to appear everywhere at once.
The Russian side controlled possession.
Arsenal controlled the match.
There was a difference.
A significant difference.
Every time Spartak lost the ball, panic flashed briefly across their defensive line.
Because they knew what was coming.
Counterattack.
Speed.
Punishment.
Several dangerous breaks arrived during the opening fifteen minutes.
One saw Sanchez burst seventy yards before being crowded out.
Another ended with Gnabry forcing a save.
The spaces were growing.
The opportunities increasing.
The fourth goal felt inevitable.
Then it arrived.
And it arrived spectacularly.
Fifty-seventh minute.
Spartak committed numbers forward once again.
A hopeful attack broke down near the edge of Arsenal's box.
The ball bounced loose.
Kanté won it.
Naturally.
Because somehow Kanté won everything.
The Frenchman immediately found Xhaka.
The Swiss midfielder lifted his head.
Space.
Nobody closing him down.
Nobody stepping out.
The Spartak midfield line was retreating.
Too slowly.
Far too slowly.
Francesco saw it instantly.
So did Ozil.
So did half the stadium.
Shoot.
Xhaka didn't need anyone to tell him twice.
The midfielder took one touch.
Then unleashed absolute violence.
His right foot connected perfectly.
The sound alone turned heads.
A crack.
A thunderbolt.
The ball screamed through the cold London air.
Rising.
Swerving.
Travelling at terrifying speed.
The goalkeeper launched himself desperately.
Full stretch.
Fingertips reaching.
Nowhere near.
The strike smashed into the top corner.
Goal.
For a split second the stadium seemed stunned.
Not because Arsenal had scored.
Because of how Arsenal had scored.
Then the Emirates exploded.
Forty.
Thousand.
People.
Roaring simultaneously.
Xhaka stood frozen for a moment.
Almost admiring his own work.
Then reality caught up.
And suddenly teammates were sprinting toward him from every direction.
Francesco reached him laughing.
"What was that?"
Xhaka spread his arms.
"I saw space."
"That wasn't a shot."
"It looked like one."
"That was attempted murder."
The midfielder couldn't stop smiling.
Neither could anyone else.
Even Wenger allowed himself a rare expression of satisfaction near the touchline.
Four-nil.
And one of the goals of the season.
The giant screens replayed it repeatedly.
Each replay somehow looked more ridiculous than the previous one.
The goalkeeper never had a chance.
Nobody would have.
⸻
The game settled again after the fourth goal.
Spartak Moscow continued trying.
To their credit, they never stopped competing.
Never stopped working.
But confidence had drained from them.
Arsenal's confidence, meanwhile, only continued growing.
Every pass seemed easier.
Every movement more fluid.
The squad looked relaxed.
Comfortable.
In control.
Around the sixty-sixth minute, Wenger glanced toward his bench.
Decision made.
Fresh legs.
Protect key players.
Reward squad depth.
The fourth official raised the electronic board.
Numbers illuminated against the night.
Francesco looked up.
His number appeared first.
Then Sanchez.
Then Ozil.
The Emirates applauded immediately.
A standing ovation rolled through sections of the stadium.
Not because the match was over.
Because all three had been outstanding.
Francesco jogged toward the touchline.
Sanchez followed.
Still looking annoyed at the idea of leaving the pitch despite winning four-nil.
Some things never changed.
Ozil jogged beside them.
As calm as always.
Waiting near the halfway line stood their replacements.
Giroud.
Iwobi.
Cazorla.
Quality replacing quality.
Experience replacing experience.
As Francesco approached Wenger, the manager extended a hand.
"Good performance."
"Thank you, boss."
The handshake lasted only a second.
Enough.
Then Francesco crossed the line and headed toward the bench.
The Emirates applauded again.
He raised a hand toward the crowd.
Simple acknowledgement.
Simple appreciation.
Nearby, Sanchez dropped onto the bench.
Immediately unhappy.
"We can score more."
Francesco laughed.
"We probably will."
The Chilean considered this.
Then nodded.
Acceptable answer.
Across the pitch, Spartak Moscow's coach responded with changes of his own.
Three substitutions.
Three defenders introduced.
A clear attempt to stop the bleeding.
To stabilize.
To survive.
The problem was that Arsenal smelled opportunity.
And Arsenal's substitutes were hungry.
Very hungry.
⸻
Cazorla immediately brought energy.
Iwobi brought movement.
And Giroud brought exactly what Giroud always brought.
Presence.
Chaos.
Goals.
The French striker had spent years making defenders miserable.
Tonight would be no exception.
The match entered its final twenty minutes.
The tempo dipped slightly.
Natural considering the scoreline.
Yet Arsenal still looked dangerous every time they crossed midfield.
Seventy-third minute.
Another attack developed.
Another opportunity emerged.
And another goal arrived.
This one began through patience.
Cazorla received possession centrally and turned elegantly away from pressure.
The Spaniard seemed incapable of losing his balance.
Or his smile.
Possibly both.
He spotted Iwobi making a clever run down the right.
The pass arrived.
Iwobi controlled cleanly.
Lifted his head.
And delivered a dangerous cross toward the penalty area.
Inside the box, Giroud was already moving.
Reading the flight.
Reading the defenders.
Reading everything.
The cross arrived perfectly.
And Giroud attacked it.
A powerful header.
Downward.
Precise.
The goalkeeper reacted.
Too late.
The ball bounced into the net.
Goal.
Five-nil.
The Emirates erupted once more.
Giroud wheeled away celebrating.
Arms stretched wide.
The Frenchman wore the expression of a man who had expected this outcome from the moment he entered the pitch.
His teammates surrounded him immediately.
Cazorla arrived laughing.
Iwobi looked delighted.
The entire move had been beautifully executed.
From buildup to finish.
A substitute combination producing another goal.
Exactly the sort of thing managers loved seeing.
On the Arsenal bench, Francesco applauded enthusiastically.
"See?" he said.
Sanchez rolled his eyes.
"You were right."
"Always."
"Never."
The conversation ended there.
Mostly because both were laughing.
⸻
The remaining minutes passed comfortably.
Not lazily.
Professionally.
There was a difference.
Arsenal maintained shape.
Maintained concentration.
Maintained standards.
Spartak Moscow continued competing.
Continued searching.
Continued trying to find at least a consolation goal.
But the Arsenal defense remained outstanding.
Van Dijk dominated everything in the air.
Koscielny intercepted dangerous passes.
Monreal stayed composed.
Bellerin used his pace whenever necessary.
Behind them, Petr Čech remained alert despite a relatively quiet evening.
The clean sheet mattered.
The standards mattered.
Every player understood that.
As the clock moved into the final stages, supporters began enjoying themselves.
Songs echoed around the Emirates.
Scarves waved.
European nights felt particularly special when your team was performing like this.
The atmosphere became increasingly celebratory.
Yet on the pitch, Arsenal remained disciplined.
No unnecessary risks.
No complacency.
No lapses in concentration.
Just professionalism.
Just control.
Just another reminder of how strong this squad had become.
Eventually the fourth official indicated added time.
A few final minutes.
Nothing more.
The outcome had long been decided.
But football demanded completion.
The referee checked his watch.
Looked around.
Then finally raised the whistle.
Full time.
Arsenal 5.
Spartak Moscow 0.
The Emirates erupted one final time.
Players exchanged handshakes.
Applause followed.
Supporters rose to their feet.
The team gathered near the center circle briefly before moving toward the stands.
Acknowledging the fans.
Sharing the moment.
Enjoying the result.
Because it had been a complete performance.
Professional.
Dominant.
Mature.
Exactly what Wenger had wanted.
As Francesco stood near the touchline applauding supporters, the giant screens displayed the final group standings.
Arsenal.
Top of Group E.
Six matches.
Six victories.
Maximum points.
Perfect.
The statistics drew another roar from the crowd.
Six wins from six.
An absolutely flawless Champions League group stage.
Something very few teams ever achieved.
Beside him, Van Dijk glanced toward the screen and nodded.
"Not bad."
Francesco laughed.
"Not bad?"
The Dutch defender shrugged.
"A decent evening."
"A decent evening."
"Yes."
"Five goals."
"Correct."
"Clean sheet."
"Also correct."
"Perfect group stage."
Van Dijk considered this.
Then nodded once.
"A decent evening."
Francesco shook his head.
Some people were simply impossible.
The celebrations continued as players slowly headed toward the tunnel.
Another victory secured.
Another statement made.
And as Arsenal disappeared beneath the Emirates toward the dressing room, there was a growing feeling spreading through the squad.
Not arrogance.
Not overconfidence.
Something far more dangerous.
Belief.
Because six matches.
Six wins.
And a perfect European group stage had sent a message to the rest of Europe.
Arsenal weren't simply the two times defending champions in a row in the Champions League this season, as they intended to made it three time champions.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 24
Goal: 31
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9