The King Of Arsenal

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He didn't raise his voice, as he didn't need to. "We're ready," he said, simply. "And they'll know it from the first whistle." Ramsey tapped his smoothie cup again. "To punishment." This time, no one laughed. Because they all meant it.

The sun is about to set the rooftops of Richmond when Francesco slid behind the wheel of his BMW X5. The engine turned over with a gentle purr, but there was no jazz this time. No music at all. Just the quiet hum of the car and the subtle thrum of his heartbeat, steady and focused. His grey hoodie was zipped halfway up, the Arsenal crest beneath it gleaming subtly against his black tee. Joggers and trainers — regulation for matchday arrival at Colney.

The roads were calm for a Tuesday evening, the autumn air crisp and clear. London always felt a little more alive on European nights. People in scarves passed newsstands that blared the headlines: FRANCESCO VS LEWANDOWSKI: CLASH OF TITANS, ARSENAL HOST GERMAN MACHINE, EMIRATES BRACES FOR BATTLE. The media hype was real, but Francesco wasn't interested in any of it now. He'd read what he needed. The rest was noise.

His thoughts drifted to the night before. Leah had kissed him good luck, resting her forehead against his and whispering, "Lead them, Francesco." It wasn't dramatic, just her voice — gentle, strong, real. He carried it with him now like an amulet.

He arrived at Colney just before 17 PM. The lot was already filling. Koscielny's sleek Audi. Cazorla's compact little hybrid. Theo's Range Rover. He parked in his usual spot and stepped out, the collar of his hoodie raised against the morning breeze.

Inside the building, the atmosphere was different from normal matchdays. Tighter. Taut. Controlled energy. The staff moved with purpose. Trainers had ice packs lined and stretching mats ready. Nutritionists laid out smoothies and energy bars. Players drifted in one by one, not with swagger, but intent.

In the changing room, the playlist was quieter than usual — no blasting reggaeton, no booming house. Just a low background rhythm. Francesco walked in and was greeted with nods, fist bumps, and claps on the back. He exchanged a short hug with Mesut, shook hands with Per and Alexis, and dropped his bag in its usual place beneath the plaque that read Victory Through Harmony.

"Game face, eh?" Oxlade-Chamberlain said, tugging on his tracksuit pants beside him.

Francesco gave a half-smile. "Been on since sunrise."

There were no long speeches. No false bravado. Just a group of professionals, now family, going about their rituals. Virgil meditated in the corner with headphones in. Ramsey scrolled through tactics again on his tablet. Walcott adjusted his shin pads five times, just like always.

Wenger entered just past 16:30, his long coat trailing behind him like a cape. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"Bus leaves in twenty minutes," he said. "Make sure you're mentally there before we even arrive."

They filed out gradually, tracksuits zipped, bags slung over shoulders, cleats clattering against tile. The team bus sat waiting, its glossy red paint catching the light. As Francesco climbed aboard, he caught his reflection in the window — sharp, composed, already inside the match.

The ride to the Emirates was quiet. A few murmurs, some beats in headphones, some eyes closed. Francesco sat beside Ramsey near the back, watching the city slide past. The closer they got, the more palpable it became — the tension, the anticipation. The Emirates rose like a cathedral ahead of them, flags already fluttering, stewards in high-vis vests guiding the crowd into position.

By the time they arrived, supporters were starting to gather at the gates. Camera flashes greeted them as they stepped off the bus, the players disappearing one by one into the belly of the stadium. Francesco's boots hit the tunnel floor and he took a long breath. The stadium smelled different on nights like this — fresh paint, cold metal, anticipation.

Inside the dressing room, each seat had a jersey neatly folded over it. Francesco's shirt — deep red with white sleeves, LEE 9 on the back — sat at the heart of the semicircle.

The pre-match routine was a blur of movement. Light stretches. Tactical reminders. Kit check. Captain's armband slipped over his bicep, snug and natural now.

Wenger's voice cut clean through the dressing room.

"Change into your training kits. Warm-up on the pitch. Forty-five minutes."

There was no second call. No prompting. The players moved like clockwork. Francesco unzipped his tracksuit and slid into the cool, sweat-wicking fibers of the training top — a black long-sleeved thermal beneath the dark crimson top, with the white Arsenal cannon just above the heart. His boots, already broken in from the sessions at Colney, were laced with quiet precision. He tied the second knot the way he always did — tight, secure, two fingers' width between the loops.

The tunnel was warm with stadium lights now. A buzz throbbed in the air — from the crowd, from the music, from the sheer energy of a European night in London. When the squad stepped out into the lights of the Emirates for their warm-up, the place was already filling with thousands of fans. Red and white flags waved like fire, thundersticks smacked together in anticipation, and the roar of collective breath followed every player's step.

Francesco led the first lap around the pitch. It wasn't a jog to him. It was a ritual. He took it all in — the scent of the trimmed grass, the rumble underfoot as cleats met turf, the way supporters clung to the edges of the lower stands just to catch a glimpse of their heroes.

Kanté and Cazorla worked together near the center circle, exchanging tight passes in rhythm, while Alexis fired shots into an open goal with clinical aggression. Özil didn't even look tired as he clipped passes off both feet, perfectly measured and spinning just right.

Francesco went through the striker's motions: quick turns, ghosting behind invisible defenders, check-runs toward the top of the box. He paused only once — standing near the penalty spot and staring up at the glowing white letters of the stadium: EMIRATES.

He imagined the ball at his feet, the keeper leaning the wrong way, the net rippling. Not for fame. Not for noise. But for Arsenal.

The staff called them in after forty-five minutes. They walked back down the tunnel now filled with the low hum of anticipation — as if the Emirates itself was holding its breath. Back in the dressing room, water bottles hissed open, sweat was wiped with towels, and the training tops were peeled off, replaced with the full match kits.

The red-and-white of Arsenal glowed under the fluorescent lights, immaculate and battle-ready. Francesco sat before his shirt, the captain's armband draped across the bench beside it. He picked it up, turned it in his hands, then slid it on. Tight, snug, but not uncomfortable. It felt right.

Wenger stood in front of the whiteboard, arms folded behind his back like a lecturer on the eve of war.

"This is the team," he said, uncapping a red marker. His voice was calm, measured — but there was an edge to it now, like steel beneath velvet.

He wrote it out with confident strokes:

Formation: 4-2-3-1

"Petr Cech," he said first. "In goal. Experience, calm. He commands the box. Listen to his calls."

Francesco nodded. There was no safer pair of hands on a night like this.

The defense came next, listed from left to right as Wenger tapped their names:

Nacho Monreal — Virgil van Dijk — Laurent Koscielny — Héctor Bellerín.

"Nacho, you give us balance. If Muller cuts inside, force him to Laurent's foot. Virgil, Laurent — you are the spine. No lapses. Lewandowski must not breathe between you. Hector, your recovery speed is key. Use it smartly."

The midfield:

N'Golo Kanté — Santi Cazorla.

"Kanté will chase, Santi will create. That's the blend. When one pushes, the other stays. Cover the pivots. Bayern love pockets. Do not let them build from there."

He drew an arrow from the pivot to the attacking midfielder.

Mesut Özil.

"Mesut, this is your canvas. You must find the passes before they see the space. You'll get one or two seconds — no more. But that's enough for you."

Then came the wide threats:

Alexis Sánchez — Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.

"Alexis, press hard when Boateng pushes. Exploit his blindside. Ox — you stretch them. Pin Bernat. Drag him wide and force their midfield to compensate. That's where we strike."

He looked last at Francesco, and the marker circled his name with quiet emphasis:

Francesco Lee.

"Captain today. You lead from the front — in press, in patience, in punishment. You are the tip of the spear. The first trigger. Read Neuer. Read the back line. You only need a breath to make the difference."

Francesco nodded slowly. He had heard it all before, but this time it landed differently. Final. True.

Then came the bench:

Substitutes: Matt Macey, Per Mertesacker, Mathieu Debuchy, Francis Coquelin, Mikel Arteta, Aaron Ramsey, Olivier Giroud.

"You all must be ready. This will not be eleven men's victory. It will be the club's. If your number is called — you must already be warm."

The squad was silent now. Some tied laces tighter. Some flexed wrists. But all of them stared at the board, seeing their names, their positions, their battle lines.

Wenger stepped back. No more tactics. No more slides.

"We are not here to admire them," he said, slowly. "We are here to beat them."

Eyes met. Heads nodded. The room breathed in unison now.

"Francesco," Wenger said.

He stood.

"Take them out."

Francesco turned, faced his teammates, and for a moment, the hum of the crowd beyond the concrete walls sounded like thunder. He didn't have a speech prepared. Didn't need one.

"Let's go make the Emirates roar," he said, voice low but clear. "From the first touch."

They followed him out of the dressing room and down the tunnel.

Lights. Noise. The match was minutes away. Thousands of supporters rose as one when Arsenal emerged onto the pitch. Banners waved. Songs erupted. The air snapped with electricity. Francesco walked to the center circle, arms loose at his sides, face calm.

He shook hands with Lahm and Neuer. Brief, respectful. Then he looked to the stands — not searching for a face, but drawing in the energy. The old anthem faded, the Champions League theme blared across the stadium, and the floodlights bathed the pitch in perfect, holy white.

Cech took his place. Monreal flexed his fingers. Bellerín cracked his knuckles. Virgil clenched his jaw. Everyone was ready.

Wenger stepped back behind the technical area, arms crossed.

The whistle blew.

Then the match began.

A shrill whistle sliced through the air, and the roar that followed was deafening. Francesco leaned forward, eyes sharp, feeling the buzz from the Emirates surge straight through the studs in his boots. The ball rolled under Bayern's control, Xabi Alonso sweeping a pass out wide to David Alaba, and just like that, it began — not as a gradual build-up, but like a dam breaking.

The first few minutes were a blur of movement — a ballet of pressure and poise. Bayern pressed with metronomic precision, pushing high up the pitch, while Arsenal compressed, adjusted, and sprang forward like a coiled spring.

In the 3rd minute, Bayern threatened first.

Douglas Costa zipped down the left wing, his feet a blur, dancing past Bellerín with a flick and a burst. He cut in on his right and lashed a curling shot toward the far post — but Cech was there. The veteran keeper flung himself left, gloves outstretched, and parried it wide with a palm strong enough to redirect a missile. The Emirates roared in appreciation, the first real exhale of the night.

Seconds later, Arsenal responded.

A throw-in deep on the right found Oxlade-Chamberlain, who controlled it neatly and surged down the flank, forcing Bernat to backpedal. He cut inside and threaded a pass into Francesco's feet. One touch to control, second to spin, and with Boateng closing, Francesco took a half-step and let fly from just outside the box.

The ball swerved low, fast — Neuer's feet danced into action. He dropped to his left like a felled tree but somehow kept his arms steady, deflecting the ball with a strong wrist. It skipped off the turf and out for a corner.

Already, the game was turning into a test of nerves and reflexes. A chess match with knives.

The 8th minute brought another moment of breath-holding tension. Lahm overlapped Müller on the right, sent in a low cross toward Lewandowski at the near post. Virgil van Dijk, as calm as if it were a training drill, stepped across him at the last instant and cleared the danger with his left boot, the ball thudding off his shin and out of the box.

The second phase came straight back in.

Alonso picked it up thirty yards from goal and tried his luck — a dipping rocket that screamed toward the top corner.

Cech leapt, fingertips brushing the sky, and clawed it away. His third save. Already.

Arsenal's defenders gathered around him, patting his gloves, shouting over the din. Monreal gritted his teeth. "No more like that," he barked.

Then came Arsenal's turn to strike again. The ball was worked quickly through the midfield — Cazorla dropping deep, playing a clever one-two with Özil, who ghosted between Alonso and Vidal like a shadow.

Özil's next pass split Bayern in two.

It slipped between Boateng and Alaba, and Francesco was already on the move, reading it a heartbeat before it happened. He took the pass in stride, shrugged off the tug of Alaba's arm, and cut toward the edge of the box.

Neuer advanced, legs wide, arms high.

Francesco opened his body and tried to curl it low to the far post — but Neuer anticipated it. The German keeper dropped his frame and got just enough on the shot to send it spinning wide. Another save. Another groan of frustration from the home crowd, another rattle of approval from those who understood just how fine the margins were.

Fifteen minutes gone. It was 0–0 on the scoreboard, but in terms of punches traded, it was already a firefight.

On the pitch, the tackles began to fly.

Cazorla tracked back and intercepted Vidal with a clean sliding tackle, rising to his feet before the Chilean could even react. Moments later, Bellerín surged forward but was met by Bernat's full-body block — both men clattered to the ground, and the crowd winced at the thud of flesh and bone against turf.

No cards. No whistles. Not yet.

In the 17th minute, Bayern nearly broke the deadlock again.

Thiago, slippery as oil, found half a yard of space and lifted a delicate chipped ball toward the penalty spot. Lewandowski rose between Koscielny and van Dijk like a skyscraper, and time seemed to slow.

He nodded it down with power — but Cech was a statue of anticipation. The ball crashed into his gloves and stayed there. His fourth save. His fingers flexed after the catch, jaw tight.

Wenger was pacing now, arms still crossed, but his shoes tapped against the floor. He knew. This wasn't ordinary pressure. This was elite, apex football — and the smallest crack could open a floodgate.

"Switch quicker!" he barked toward the touchline, voice carrying across the pitch.

On the far sideline, Alexis nodded, signaling for a reset.

Then Arsenal began to grow.

It started with Kanté. He intercepted a pass from Alonso with a sudden burst and darted forward, legs pumping. His engine was relentless — not just running, but reading. He slid the ball into Özil, who barely looked before dinking a short one into Oxlade-Chamberlain.

The Ox turned, sent Bernat stumbling with a sharp feint, and drove a cross into the box.

Francesco got a toe on it — just enough — but the angle was narrow, and Neuer smothered it low. Still, the warning was fired. The 20th minute came and went with the scoreboard untouched, but both sides knew the game was already breathing fire.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield

Season 15/16 stats:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 12

Goal: 20

Assist: 2

MOTM: 1

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9