The King Of Arsenal

If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!

Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12

___________________________

As Francesco stood up, stretching his legs, he felt a familiar sense of anticipation. The preparation was done. Now, all that remained was the game itself. Tomorrow, under the lights of Old Trafford, they would have their chance to prove themselves.

Francesco and Bellerín made their way back to their room, the echoes of Wenger's final words lingering in their minds. The tactical briefing had been thorough, leaving no doubt about what was expected of them. Now, all that was left was to rest and be ready for the battle ahead.

As they entered their room, Bellerín let out a small sigh, stretching his arms. "That was a long one," he muttered, kicking off his sneakers and dropping onto his bed.

Francesco nodded, placing his phone on the bedside table. "Yeah, but at least we know exactly what we're up against."

Bellerín smirked, rolling onto his side. "You're not nervous?"

Francesco shook his head. "More excited than anything. It's Old Trafford, man. This is why we play."

Bellerín chuckled. "Fair enough. Just don't let the occasion get to you."

Francesco smiled but didn't reply. He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment. These were the nights every footballer dreamed about—on the eve of a massive match, knowing that tomorrow could be a defining moment in his career. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift as he focused on the game plan.

They each took turns freshening up before settling into bed. The room was silent except for the occasional hum of traffic outside. Bellerín soon dozed off, his breathing steady. Francesco took a little longer to fall asleep, his mind playing through scenarios of the match. Eventually, the exhaustion of the day caught up to him, and he drifted off into a deep sleep.

The alarm buzzed softly, signaling the start of a crucial day. Francesco groggily reached over, turning it off before sitting up and rubbing his face. Bellerín stirred in the other bed, stretching before letting out a groan.

"Game day," he mumbled, running a hand through his messy hair.

Francesco nodded, already feeling the anticipation creeping in. He swung his legs off the bed, cracking his neck. "Let's get moving."

They took turns in the bathroom, each taking a quick but refreshing shower. Francesco let the warm water wake him up, feeling the tension ease from his muscles. As he stepped out and changed into the team's official tracksuit, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. The work was done—the only thing left was to play.

Bellerín emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed, and ready to go. "Breakfast?" he asked.

"Yeah, let's go," Francesco replied, grabbing his phone and room key.

They headed down to the hotel restaurant, where the rest of the team was already gathered. The room was filled with the quiet hum of conversation as players ate their meals, fueling up for the day ahead. Francesco spotted Alexis Sánchez, Mesut Özil, and Olivier Giroud at one table, while Aaron Ramsey and Per Mertesacker sat at another.

Francesco grabbed a plate, opting for a balanced breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a banana, along with a glass of orange juice. Bellerín did the same, choosing a slightly lighter meal.

As they sat down, Ramsey glanced over. "Slept well?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

Francesco nodded. "Yeah, not bad. Just ready to get going."

Theo Walcott, seated next to Ramsey, grinned. "That's the spirit. You ready for Old Trafford?"

Francesco smirked. "Born ready."

Walcott chuckled. "Good. We'll need that energy."

The conversation shifted to the day's schedule. After breakfast, the team would head to the stadium for a light pre-match training session, giving them a chance to loosen up and get a feel for the pitch.

As they finished their meals, Wenger walked into the room, nodding to the players. He didn't need to say much—everyone knew what was expected.

"Eat well, prepare well," he said simply before taking a seat at his own table.

The team finished their breakfast in a focused but relaxed atmosphere. The energy was building, and Francesco could feel it in the air. This was what football was all about.

Pre-Match Preparations

After breakfast, the team boarded the bus, heading towards Old Trafford for their pre-match session. The ride was quiet, with most players listening to music or mentally preparing themselves. Francesco stared out the window as they approached the stadium, the legendary ground looming in the distance.

When they arrived, they were led to the away dressing room, where they changed into their training kit before heading onto the pitch for warm up.

As Francesco and his teammates stepped onto the Old Trafford pitch for their warm-up session, a cool breeze swept across the grass. The stadium, still mostly empty, carried an eerie calm—one that would soon be replaced by a deafening roar as kickoff approached. Francesco took a deep breath, savoring the moment. He had dreamed of this since he was a kid, and now, he was here, preparing for one of the biggest matches of his career.

The team started with light jogging to loosen up, moving in unison around the field. The rhythm of their steps was steady, the sound of cleats pressing into the pitch filling the air. Francesco felt his muscles gradually waking up, the stiffness from the morning fading with each stride.

After a few laps, they transitioned into dynamic stretches—lunges, high knees, and hip openers—to ensure their bodies were fully activated. Francesco glanced around at his teammates. Alexis was as intense as ever, his movements sharp and precise. Özil, with his usual calm demeanor, went through the motions with an effortless grace. Bellerín, his closest friend in the squad, gave him a quick nod as they moved on to the next drill.

The warm-up intensified as they shifted into ball work. The first drill focused on quick passing, with players forming tight circles and pinging the ball to each other with one or two touches. Francesco relished the speed of play, the crisp sound of the ball being struck cleanly. It was all about rhythm, timing, and awareness—things he had honed tirelessly throughout his career.

Next came dribbling exercises. They weaved through cones, testing their close control at varying speeds. Francesco pushed himself, making sharp cuts and quick turns, feeling the ball glued to his feet. He knew United's defenders would be physical, so his ability to maneuver in tight spaces would be crucial.

The final segment of the warm-up focused on shooting. The team took turns striking the ball at Wojciech Szczęsny, Arsenal's towering goalkeeper. Francesco watched as Alexis rifled a shot into the top corner, then stepped up for his turn. He controlled a pass from Özil, took a quick glance at the goal, and curled a precise shot past Szczęsny into the bottom corner. He smirked slightly—he was feeling sharp.

After 45 minutes, Wenger's voice rang out from the sidelines. "That's enough, boys. Let's head in."

The squad jogged back toward the tunnel, sweat glistening on their faces but spirits high. Francesco could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The real battle was about to begin.

Back in the dressing room, the mood had shifted. The chatter from earlier had died down, replaced by an air of quiet focus. The players peeled off their training gear, some stretching, others sitting silently in thought. Francesco took a moment to wipe his face with a towel before reaching for his match kit.

The famous red and white jersey felt different now—heavier, almost as if it carried the weight of history with it. As he pulled it over his head, he glanced around at his teammates. They were all locked in, ready for war.

Wenger stood in the center of the room, his presence commanding but composed. He waited until every player was seated before speaking.

"This is your moment," he began, his voice calm but filled with conviction. "We have prepared well. We know their strengths, and we know their weaknesses. Trust in yourselves, trust in your teammates, and most importantly—play our football."

He walked toward the tactical board and tapped on it with his finger. The formation was set—4-2-3-1.

"Szczęsny in goal," Wenger started, going down the list. "Monreal, Koscielny, Mertesacker—our captain—and Bellerín at the back."

Francesco listened intently as Wenger continued.

"Coquelin and Cazorla as our double pivot. Özil will control the game from midfield. Alexis on the left, Oxlade-Chamberlain on the right, and leading the line…" Wenger turned his gaze to Francesco, his eyes full of trust.

"…Francesco Lee."

Francesco gave a firm nod. He had been waiting for this.

"For the bench: Martínez, Chambers, Gibbs, Ramsey, Walcott, Welbeck, and Giroud," Wenger added.

He took a step back, scanning the faces in the room. "United will come at us with intensity. They'll press, they'll be physical. But we will control the game with our passing, our movement, our intelligence."

He looked toward his captain. "Per, lead them well."

Mertesacker, ever the composed leader, gave a simple nod. "Yes, boss."

Wenger then turned back to Francesco. "Francesco, you will be their biggest threat tonight. Stay sharp, stay mobile, and trust your instincts. If you get a chance—take it."

Francesco clenched his fists slightly, his heartbeat steady. "I will, boss."

Wenger turned back to the tactical board, his eyes sharp as he continued. "Now, let's talk about them. Van Gaal has set them up in a 4-2-3-1, just like us." He tapped the board again, highlighting United's lineup.

"David de Gea in goal. Solid shot-stopper, quick reflexes—if we get a chance, we must be clinical. Their back four: Luke Shaw, Marcos Rojo, Chris Smalling, and Antonio Valencia. Shaw will push forward, but he can be vulnerable defensively. Rojo and Smalling are aggressive, but they can be caught out of position. Valencia is quick, but he's not a natural right-back. We can exploit that."

Francesco nodded, mentally making notes. He had faced tough defenders before, but he knew weaknesses existed in every backline.

"Their midfield," Wenger continued, pointing to the middle. "Ander Herrera and Daley Blind as their pivots. Blind is intelligent, a good passer, but not the quickest. Herrera is tenacious, but he can lose his temper under pressure. Then there's Fellaini in front of them. We all know what he brings—physicality, aerial presence. We can't afford to give him space in the box."

Wenger's hand moved further up. "On the flanks, they have Ashley Young on the left and Di María on the right. Young likes to cut inside and draw fouls—be careful. Di María is their most dangerous creator. He'll look for space and try to pick out Rooney. We need to close him down early."

Finally, Wenger's finger rested on United's striker. "Wayne Rooney. Their captain, their leader. He will drop deep to collect the ball, and if we let him dictate play, we will suffer. Koscielny, Per, you must communicate and track his movements."

The entire squad was locked in, absorbing every detail. Wenger took a step back, looking at his players one by one.

"Their bench: Valdés, Jones, Rafael, Carrick, Mata, Januzaj, and Falcao. If they're chasing the game, expect Mata or Falcao to come on. We must be prepared for every scenario."

Wenger let the words settle before delivering his final instructions. "This is Old Trafford. We know the challenge. But we also know our strengths. Stay compact when we defend, use our intelligence when we attack. Play with confidence, play with belief. And most of all—play for each other."

A beat of silence followed, then Mertesacker clapped his hands together. "Come on, boys!"

The squad responded with a chorus of determined voices. The energy in the room was electric. This was it. Game time.

As the team finished putting on their kits, Francesco laced up his boots, feeling the familiar snug fit. He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. This was the kind of game that defined players.

Bellerín nudged him. "Ready?"

Francesco smirked. "Always."

They all rose to their feet as Mertesacker gathered them into a huddle. "Let's give everything. No regrets. We fight for each other. Let's go!"

A roar of agreement echoed through the room as they made their way into the tunnel.

The tunnel at Old Trafford was filled with tension. The red shirts of Manchester United stood on one side, the red and white of Arsenal on the other. Francesco stood tall, his eyes fixed ahead, feeling the energy vibrating in the air.

Wayne Rooney glanced over and gave him a nod of respect. Francesco returned it. Whatever happened in the next 90 minutes, he was ready.

The referee gave the signal.

"Let's go, boys!" Mertesacker barked.

And with that, they stepped onto the pitch, into the cauldron of Old Trafford, where legends were made.

As Francesco stepped onto the pitch, the floodlights of Old Trafford bathed the field in a brilliant glow. The stands, now packed with over 75,000 fans, trembled with anticipation. A sea of red shirts filled the stadium, their chants echoing in a deafening roar. He could see the Stretford End, buzzing with excitement, their voices forming a wall of noise. But scattered among them were patches of Arsenal supporters, waving their scarves and singing defiantly. It was a hostile environment—but Francesco thrived on it.

He took in a deep breath, the crisp Manchester air filling his lungs. This was it. The kind of night he had dreamed of as a kid. The kind of night that separated the good players from the great ones.

The referee stood at the center circle, ball in hand, waiting for the final checks. Francesco jogged to his position at the front of Arsenal's attack, stretching his arms one last time. Across from him, Rooney did the same, his expression focused and serious. Their eyes met for a brief moment—two warriors about to do battle.

The whistle blew, and the game was underway.

Francesco immediately pressed forward, closing down Smalling as he received the ball. Arsenal had planned to start aggressively, disrupting United's rhythm early. Coquelin surged forward to cut off Herrera's passing lane, forcing United to recycle possession backward.

United's first attack came quickly. Di María, with his effortless dribbling, slipped past Monreal and delivered a cross toward Rooney. Mertesacker rose to meet it, his towering frame heading the ball away, but it dropped to Fellaini at the edge of the box. The Belgian took a touch and fired a shot—only for Koscielny to throw himself in the way, blocking it with his body.

Francesco exhaled. A close call.

Arsenal responded in kind. Özil, always calm under pressure, threaded a perfect pass into space for Alexis. The Chilean darted past Valencia, cutting inside before laying the ball off to Francesco at the top of the box. In one motion, he controlled and swiveled, firing a low shot toward the bottom corner.

De Gea reacted in an instant, diving to his right and pushing it away with his fingertips.

Francesco cursed under his breath. That was close.

The game was opening up now. United countered with speed, Ashley Young bursting forward on the left, his cross seeking out Rooney. But once again, Koscielny was there, snuffing out the danger. Arsenal built their own attacks methodically, Özil dictating the tempo, Cazorla gliding through midfield, Bellerín providing width on the right.

Francesco found himself in a constant battle with Rojo and Smalling. Every time he received the ball, they were on him, tugging, shoving, making life difficult. But he relished the fight. He used his body smartly, drawing fouls, frustrating his markers.

Midway through the first half, Arsenal got their best chance yet. Alexis skipped past two defenders and sent a looping cross into the box. Francesco timed his run, rising above Smalling, meeting the ball with a powerful header.

It was going in.

But De Gea, somehow, stretched a hand and tipped it over the bar.

Francesco ran his hands through his hair. What did it take to beat this guy?

The game remained on a knife's edge. United attacked in bursts, Di María and Young stretching Arsenal's defense, while Arsenal's midfield trio worked tirelessly to maintain control.

________________________________________________

Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 18

Goal: 23

Assist: 12

MOTM: 7