The King Of Arsenal

Chapter 247: 232. Againts The Miracle Leicester City PT.2



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Francesco felt it all, the weight of the crowd, the tug of gravity, the hum of memory whispering from the sidelines. He had lived this match once, watched it unfold from a distance. Now he was carving it fresh.

The roar of the King Power Stadium was deafening when Vardy slipped through the Arsenal back line in the 13th minute. It began with a crisp Leicester move—Mahrez drifting wide to the right, hugging the touchline, dragging Monreal with him. That opened the channel down the middle. Drinkwater, planted like a metronome in the centre circle, slid a perfectly weighted pass into Vardy's path. The run was textbook: off the shoulder of Koscielny, dragging Van Dijk tight, then a burst of pure pace that left them stranded.

Vardy met the ball with one touch, guided it beyond the leg of Cech, then his second—a low, venomous strike that arrowed into the bottom corner before the giant of a goalkeeper could adjust. 1–0. The stadium erupted, a volcanic explosion of blue and white. Vardy wheeled away, arms aloft, dragging Drinkwater into his celebration. Ranieri and his assistant leapt from the bench in a tangle of high-fives, their underdog dream surging forward once again.

But that ecstasy was short‑lived. Because Arsenal had fury in their souls and belief in their boots. Within five minutes, the tide had turned.

Cazorla, the conductor, collected the ball just inside his own half. He saw the shift—Walcott peeling off Simpson on the right wing, his eyes flicking like a hawk. Santi stepped forward and clipped a delicate, arching pass beyond the Leicester full-back's that is Schlupp with a despairing lunge. It looped gracefully into Walcott's path, sixty yards away.

Theo took one touch at speed, then fired down the touchline. That single, searing sprint—petrifying for Huth—turned space into opportunity. Theo reached the byline just as Morgan lunged in, teasing the ball low and hard across the six-yard box.

There, unmarked, Theo pivoted his hips and steered it into the far corner with the inside of his boot. 1–1. The Arsenal end exploded, red and white scarves flying in celebration. Walcott raced toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, eyes blazing, while Cazorla sprinted alongside him, patting his back in triumph.

In the blink between goals, the narrative of the game had been rewritten. Leicester's dream had met Arsenal's resolve—and neither side would relent.

From that moment, the match turned into a pulsating, end‑to‑end spectacle: Vardy chasing every loose ball with feral intensity; Walcott racing him down the flanks like a greyhound on a leash; Mahrez pirouetting through traffic with an artistry that belied the brutality of his surroundings; Alexis and Özil weaving patterns of brilliance that cut through Leicester's defense like a broadsword through silk. In midfield, Kanté and Cazorla danced a flamenco of interception and rhythm, never giving Drinkwater with Andy King never give them an inch of comfort.

The game had unspooled into a kind of beautiful chaos by the twenty-minute mark. No pauses. No breaths. Just roaring football. A blur of motion, decisions made in milliseconds, hearts racing with the rhythm of the crowd.

Francesco Lee felt the pulse of it in his chest, in his calves, in the fire behind his eyes.

He hadn't stopped moving since kickoff—dropping into pockets, spinning off shoulders, making those clever, angled runs that unsettled back lines. Huth and Morgan were seasoned warhorses, bulky and disciplined, but they weren't agile. Not like him. And Francesco knew it. He could feel the space in behind them, the hesitations in their turns, the moments when their weight shifted the wrong way.

It was in one of those moments—minute twenty-five, with the ball bobbing around midfield and Leicester's shape momentarily lopsided—that Francesco struck.

Cazorla had it again, that metronomic touch always in rhythm. He drifted left and turned his hips like he might play it wide to Monreal, baiting Drinkwater and King to shift their bodies. Then, just as they leaned, he reversed it sharply—an outside-foot pass through the middle, one that bypassed five blue shirts in a heartbeat.

Francesco was already on the move.

He picked up the ball just inside the Leicester half, with Morgan five yards behind him and Huth stepping up to confront. And that was all he needed.

The shift came like lightning. One touch out of his feet. Another to shimmy inside. Huth reached out to slow him—too late. Francesco dipped low, powered through the space, and in that instant, he was free.

He split the centre-backs clean in half.

The crowd gasped. Morgan turned, lumbering after him, but it was like chasing smoke. Francesco was already gone.

Now it was him and Schmeichel, the angle narrowing. Francesco didn't blink. He didn't even glance up. He just let the ball roll to the perfect spot across his body, then struck it—left-footed, hard, low, vicious—past the goalkeeper's outstretched boot.

The net rippled. 2–1.

And the away end exploded.

Francesco didn't celebrate like a man who'd just scored. He celebrated like a man fulfilling prophecy. No wild scream. No sliding knee. Just a raised fist, a clenched jaw, and that look in his eye—the one that said I told you so.

His teammates swarmed him—Walcott grabbed his shoulders, Alexis leapt on his back, Özil just grinned and pointed like that's why he's the captain. Even Cazorla, not much for fanfare, gave him a nod that meant that was cold.

Francesco looked up at the scoreboard.

Minute 25. Arsenal 2. Leicester City 1.

He didn't allow himself even a flicker of comfort.

Because he knew. He knew this Leicester side wouldn't just lie down and die. They hadn't all last season. They didn't know how to. And now, trailing again, they were getting angry. The tackles got tighter. The presses harder. Mahrez tried to beat Monreal three times in two minutes. Vardy kept buzzing around the box like a wasp without rest.

But Arsenal had the rhythm now. They had the engine. They had belief.

And most dangerously of all—they had Alexis Sánchez.

The Chilean had been relatively quiet in the early minutes, lurking wide, occasionally drifting in to combine with Özil or Francesco. But the moment the tempo hit full tilt, he turned savage. His touches got sharper. His presses more aggressive. Every time Leicester coughed up the ball in midfield, Alexis was on them like a predator.

Then came minute thirty-three.

Özil was the catalyst again, of course. A loose ball near the halfway line, collected under pressure with a pirouette so elegant it felt choreographed. He looked up, saw Alexis lurking near the left touchline, waved a finger forward—and floated a pass like a feather over two defenders.

Alexis caught it in stride.

De Laet was the first to meet him, coming in hard, low, rash. Alexis skipped over him like skipping a puddle.

Now Morgan stepped out. The captain. The wall.

But Alexis dropped his shoulder, then doubled it. A shimmy left, a drag-back right, a twist that left Morgan spinning in a half-circle like a dancer trying to catch a partner who had already vanished.

Into the box now.

The crowd noise peaked, not in cheers but a kind of terrified anticipation—he's going to do it.

Alexis pulled the ball to his right foot, opened his hips as if to square it—and then lashed it into the top left corner, a shot so fierce it sounded like it tore the air apart.

Schmeichel never moved.

3–1.

The away end was in rapture.

Alexis roared as he slid to the corner flag, fists pounding his chest, as if challenging the world to try and stop him. Behind him, Bellerín raced in, jumping onto his back. Özil arrived grinning ear to ear. Even Wenger cracked the faintest smile on the touchline, arms still folded, but nodding ever so slightly.

Thirty-three minutes gone. Arsenal had scored three at the King Power.

And now they were swaggering.

But there was no arrogance in their play—just momentum. Electricity. Every touch now had purpose. Every pass felt like it was dancing to a symphony only they could hear. Koscielny and Van Dijk held the line like generals, never flinching even as Leicester threw bodies forward. Cech barked from the back, hands always ready, commanding his box like a fortress.

Kanté, against his former club, was playing like a man possessed.

He broke up three consecutive Leicester attacks between the 34th and 38th minutes alone—each one ending with him intercepting a pass, pivoting in traffic, and slipping it calmly to Cazorla. The Spaniard kept feeding Özil. Özil kept feeding runners. And the pattern repeated, endlessly elegant.

By the fortieth minute, Arsenal had taken the sting out of the match. The pace dipped, but the control didn't. Every time Leicester tried to push, they were met with resistance—swarmed by two, three Arsenal shirts. Mahrez was now drifting deeper to find the ball. Vardy had stopped smiling.

And Francesco? He was still prowling. Still hungry.

He kept dragging Huth and Morgan out of position, pressing from the front, always demanding the ball even if it didn't come. When Alexis had it, Francesco moved. When Özil had it, Francesco ran.

Right before halftime, he nearly had a second—Özil chipped a ball through the middle, and Francesco ghosted between the centre-backs again. This time he tried to lob Schmeichel first-time, but the Dane clawed it just over the bar with a brilliant save.

The corner led to nothing.

And then, after a final burst down the right from Walcott that was cut out by Schlupp, the referee blew for halftime.

Arsenal jogged off the pitch to a storm of noise—boos from the home end, but cheers, applause, sheer delight from the red corner of the King Power. The away fans were singing now, loud and proud:

"And it's Arsenal, Arsenal FC! We're by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen!"

In the tunnel, Wenger stood waiting. No overreactions. No emotion. Just calm focus.

"Well done," he said as the players streamed in, sweat-soaked and panting. "But it's not finished."

Francesco pulled his shirt up to wipe his face, then looked around the room. His teammates were buzzing—but not distracted. Not losing themselves. There was steel in this team. Real steel.

Wenger gathered them close, pointing again to the board.

"They will come at us after the break," he said. "Mahrez will cut in. Vardy will make diagonal runs. Stay sharp. Stay compact. Hit them on the break when the space opens."

He looked to Francesco.

"You keep doing what you're doing. Keep moving. Keep pulling them apart. Your time will come again."

Francesco nodded, his lungs still burning, but his mind sharper than ever.

As the second half start, the sun had dipped a little lower behind the East Stand, casting the pitch in a bronze hue as the teams reemerged. The Arsenal players were calm. Measured. But they weren't coasting. Not for a second. The smell of blood was in the air—but so was danger. Because no one in red had forgotten what this Leicester side could do when unshackled.

From kickoff, the Foxes played like their lives depended on it.

For the first ten minutes of the half, it was a siege.

Shinji Okazaki, fresh from a Ranieri tongue-lashing at halftime, came out like a man possessed. In the 48th minute, he peeled off Van Dijk's blind side with a perfectly timed curved run, catching Mahrez's through ball on the turn. With one flick, he was into the box, and the home crowd surged with hope. Okazaki struck it low, aiming for the far post. Cech went horizontal.

A thud, a groan, a bounce. Gloved fingers diverted the shot just wide.

Corner.

Two minutes later, it was Mahrez again, this time hugging the right flank before cutting back onto his left. He didn't shoot. He spotted Albrighton instead, lurking at the far post, and whipped in a cross with wicked bend and venom.

Albrighton met it on the volley, clean and true.

But Cech was there again. A hand like a shield raised instinctively, palming the ball up and over the bar. The Leicester fans couldn't believe it. Neither could Albrighton. He stood there, hands on his head, watching the tall Czech keeper calmly reset.

That was Arsenal's warning.

And they heeded it.

Not by retreating. Not by changing tempo. But by doubling down.

Because in the 57th minute, they struck again.

It began with Özil, of course—who else? He glided into the half-space between King and Drinkwater, received the ball on the half-turn from Arteta, and paused, just for a second. It looked like nothing. But it was everything.

Because Alexis had started his run the moment Özil touched the ball. From wide left, he darted inside, bisecting the Leicester lines like a blade through silk.

Özil waited… waited… then slid a ball through with such precision it looked magnetic. One touch. One window. No hesitation.

Alexis didn't break stride.

He raced into the box, let the ball roll perfectly into his stride, then struck it across Schmeichel and into the bottom corner. A razor-sharp finish. Cold. Merciless.

4–1.

The Arsenal end detonated again. And this time, so did Alexis.

He sprinted toward the touchline, kissed the badge, and pounded his fists into the grass. The brace was his. The night was his. The statement—undeniable.

Wenger clapped once, sharply. Then turned to the bench.

Time for rotation.

In the 65th minute, the substitutions came.

Off came Cazorla—his job done, his masterclass complete. In his place: Mikel Arteta, the captain of calm, the voice of tempo. He slid into midfield alongside Kanté, who gave him a quick nod as they exchanged positions. Off too came Theo Walcott, still buzzing from his goal and relentless sprinting. In his place: Olivier Giroud.

A reshuffle.

Francesco Lee, the skipper, drifted to the right wing. He welcomed it. A new angle. New turf to carve.

And on the other side, Ranieri responded. Okazaki and Albrighton were sacrificed—both had worked like dogs, but the game was slipping. On came Andrej Kramarić and Leonardo Ulloa. Bigger bodies. More aerial threat. A shift to more direct football.

The clock ticked past 70.

And for the first time all game, the match settled into a slower, thicker rhythm. Arsenal, now with Arteta dictating, began to strangle the tempo. They moved the ball across the back line, through the midfield, lulling Leicester into chases they couldn't win.

But they weren't done.

Francesco took to his new role like a conductor on the wing. He wasn't hugging the touchline—he was bending the space. Tucking in just enough to find those gaps between full-back and centre-back, forcing De Laet into two minds. Özil kept finding him with short, clipped passes. One-two, shift, move. Again and again.

In the 73rd minute, Francesco almost carved Leicester apart once more.

Receiving a diagonal ball from Arteta, he took it down on his instep, feinted inside past Schlupp, then dinked a teasing cross with the outside of his boot to the back post.

Giroud rose. Met it. Inches over.

The Frenchman cursed the heavens—but gave Francesco a thumbs-up. The service was immaculate.

Leicester looked beaten. But they weren't broken.

In the 75th, they threw one last gambit. Mahrez again—still electric, still a thorn. He danced past Monreal, cut inside, and curled one toward the top right. Cech didn't flinch. He dove, fingertipped it onto the post, and collected the rebound before Ulloa could pounce.

Another save. Another dagger to Leicester's belief.

By the 80th minute, the Arsenal fans were chanting Francesco's name.

"He's our captain, number nine—

Francesco leads us every time!"

He smiled, just briefly. But his eyes stayed locked on the pitch.

Wenger gave him the signal. "Ease it," the boss gestured from the sideline. And Francesco nodded. He dropped a bit deeper, helped Bellerín on the right defensively, and allowed Alexis to shift high again.

By the time the clock ticked into the eighty-second minute, the King Power had thinned out. Not completely—never completely—but pockets of empty blue seats had begun to show as home fans filtered out, disheartened but not entirely angry. More stunned than anything. Leicester hadn't played badly, not by any measure. They'd fought. They'd pressed. They'd created. But Arsenal had been… otherworldly.

And as the Foxes braced for the final act, they didn't yet know the curtain still had two devastating flourishes to come.

It began again with the left side—always the left.

Nacho Monreal had been a machine all evening, quietly relentless in his overlaps, his recovery runs, his tidy inside passes. Now, with space opening ahead of him and legs beginning to slow around the pitch, he surged again. Mahrez didn't track. King was late to cover. Monreal was in acres.

Francesco saw it from the right and yelled—"Go, Nacho!"

Monreal went.

Arteta pinged it out to him with a skimming ball along the turf, and Monreal didn't hesitate. First touch forward. Second touch to steady. He glanced up—and Alexis Sánchez was already moving.

It wasn't just a run; it was an ambush.

Alexis was ghosting behind Morgan again, who had lost count of how many times he'd been twisted inside out. The Chilean curved his path between Huth and De Laet with almost cruel ease, eyes fixed on the space near the penalty spot.

Monreal didn't float it. He fizzed it.

A grounded ball, snapped across the face of goal with just enough pace to beg for a touch.

And Alexis was there.

One touch. That was all it needed.

He met it on the run—left foot, body angled, no wind-up—and redirected it past Schmeichel before the keeper could drop to his knees. It kissed the inside of the post and cannoned in.

Hat-trick.

Hat-trick.

5–1.

The roar from the away end was thunderous, a wall of sound that crashed over the pitch and sent the Arsenal bench to their feet. Players jumped in unison, arms outstretched. Wenger didn't even try to contain it—he clapped, twice, then allowed himself a grin wider than any he'd shown all season.

Alexis sprinted to the corner flag, arms raised, chest heaving. Three fingers up. A hat-trick at the King Power. He fell to his knees, then collapsed back onto the grass, staring at the sky with a half-mad smile.

Francesco was the first to reach him, dragging him up, hugging him tight. "Animal," he said into his ear, grinning. "You're a fucking animal."

Alexis laughed, eyes gleaming. "You next, hermano."

There were still eight minutes left.

Eight long, open minutes.

Leicester were in pieces now. Their spirit broken. Their structure undone. It wasn't about pride anymore—it was damage control. Ranieri stood motionless near the edge of his technical area, not even shouting anymore. What could he say?

Arsenal smelt it.

That sixth.

And they went for it with venom.

In the 86th minute, Özil had another moment of ballet—scooping a chipped pass through a sliver of space to Francesco, who caught it on the volley and rifled a cross that Giroud just missed at full stretch.

In the 87th, Kanté won the ball again—his sixth interception of the half—and immediately recycled it wide to Monreal. Leicester hadn't learned.

Monreal galloped forward again, and this time, there was no tracking at all. He had time. Time to pick. Time to measure.

Inside the box, Giroud raised a hand.

Monreal hit it early. A driven cross, waist-height, arrowing toward the edge of the six-yard box.

Giroud didn't even jump. He stepped into it.

The contact was pure. A left-footed volley—guided more than struck—that whipped across Schmeichel and tucked perfectly inside the far post.

Goal.

Six.

Six.

The Arsenal players exploded toward the corner flag again. Giroud sprinted, arms wide, face alight with relief and fire—his first goal of the season, at long last. The whole squad joined him this time. Even Bellerín ran from the halfway line to join the huddle. Monreal was buried beneath high fives and back slaps.

6–1.

The away end was shaking.

Fans hugged one another, sang at full volume, even bounced on shoulders like it was a cup final. This was dream football. Unimaginable football.

And as the final minutes bled out—Arsenal passing now for fun, Leicester retreating into a daze—the whistle finally blew.

Full-time.

Leicester City 1 – 6 Arsenal.

A statement. A message. A masterpiece.

Alexis took the match ball and held it above his head, kissed it once, then tucked it under his shirt like a prize. Özil offered him a slow clap as they walked off. Francesco, still catching his breath, exchanged a glance with Wenger.

No words were needed.

Wenger just nodded.

Francesco nodded back.

This—this was what they were building. Not just wins. Not just goals. But football that pulsed with meaning. With movement. With identity.

The dressing room was electric. Music thumping, boots tossed, jerseys soaked. Alexis had the match ball in both hands and was letting everyone sign it—Özil wrote "El Maestro" in big, looping script. Giroud scribbled "Finally." Francesco just wrote "Captain."

Later, as the media buzzed and reporters scrambled for quotes, Francesco stepped up to the mic. Calm. Measured. But proud.

"We played the way we train. The way we believe. We respect Leicester—they've been excellent. But tonight was about us showing what we can be when we click."

A pause.

"And this," he added, eyes gleaming, "is just the beginning."

He turned, disappeared down the tunnel, and into the night. A leader walking off a battlefield—not bloodied, not bruised, but triumphant. The Premier League had taken notice, as Arsenal weren't just a defending champs, they here to dominate Premier League.

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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: 9

Goal: 15

Assist: 2

MOTM: 0

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9


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