The King Of Arsenal

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And when the cameras came, when the fans filled the stadium, when the chants rose and the ball rolled—he would speak with the only voice that mattered, and that is his football. Because Mendes was right. If he wanted the world to believe again, he had to become undeniable.

The clouds over Hertfordshire hung low that morning, their underbellies smeared in the gentle gold of a late September sun trying to push through. There was a chill in the air—not enough for frost, but enough to carry a stillness across the sprawling fields of London Colney, Arsenal's training ground, as if the very earth knew something hung in the balance.

Francesco Lee drove in silence, his BMW X5 humming steadily along the A414, the soft hum of the road rising beneath the tires. He wore a dark hoodie pulled over his head, headphones in but silent. He hadn't played any music. Not today. Not when his thoughts were already loud enough to drown out anything on Spotify.

The weight of the night before still sat with him—not heavy like guilt, but dense, like armor. There was clarity in his bones now, even if it came after a storm. He didn't regret meeting Zidane. He didn't even regret letting Mendes arrange it. But he would never forget what came of it. What it revealed.

As Colney appeared in the distance—its low modern buildings lined up against the greenery—Francesco exhaled. Not deeply. Not dramatically. Just a quiet breath of resolve.

Let's get to work.

He turned into the gated entrance, nodded at the security guard who raised the barrier without hesitation, and rolled into the parking lot. It was already dotted with familiar cars. Bellerín's electric Polestar, the unmistakable matte black Range Rover that Alexis Sánchez still insisted on driving despite being told five times the hybrid ones were better for PR.

Francesco pulled into his usual space and cut the engine. For a moment, he sat still.

This place—this very lot—had once been a second home. It still was. But today, the edges felt just slightly different. Sharper. Warier.

He stepped out of the car, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie still drawn tight over his head, and made the short walk into the main building.

As he passed through the glass doors, the warmth inside wrapped around him. Familiar. Steady. A mixture of coffee brewing somewhere in the nutrition lounge and the clean scent of turf lingering from the indoor pitch.

Light training today. Just a few hours. Some stretching, some passing drills, maybe a rondo or two if the mood was good. The real work would be tonight—under the lights at the Emirates against Olympiacos. Champions League. A must-win, even if it wasn't spoken aloud.

Francesco walked through the hallway toward the dressing room, boots in hand, and reached for the door.

And then he paused.

He could hear them inside—voices, laughter, the usual soundscape of a professional team gearing up for the day. But there was something else too. A hesitation. A hush. As if the room had been roaring five seconds ago and had dropped a gear the moment they heard footsteps approach.

He opened the door and stepped in.

The dressing room was warm, its walls painted in shades of red and white. Gear bags, boots, water bottles, and loose socks scattered the floor like always. The usual chaotic harmony of athletes preparing for routine. And eyes—lots of them—turned his way.

For half a second, he braced.

But then, a voice broke the tension.

"Morning, skipper."

It was Mertesacker. Tall, grizzled, still carrying the air of an on-field general even in his post-playing role as academy head. He wasn't even on the coaching staff today—he'd dropped by early to check on the U21s—but he stood near the lockers, arms folded, gaze steady.

Next to him, Arteta. Arms crossed, nodding once.

Behind them, slowly, other voices followed.

"Morning, Fran."

"'Sup, cap."

"Hey, Francesco."

Even Alexis, from the far bench, raised a hand in silent acknowledgment before returning to lacing his boots.

And just like that, the frost broke.

Francesco gave a small, grateful nod and made his way to his locker, trying not to let too much show on his face. But inside, something unknotted.

They'd talked.

Mertesacker and Arteta—two of the team's old souls—had clearly spoken to the others. Set things straight. Maybe reminded them of the facts. Or maybe just reminded them who Francesco really was.

He didn't need a speech. Didn't want one. But the fact they were greeting him again, nodding, throwing half-smiles or casual jokes his way—it meant something. It meant they were still with him.

He dropped his bag and began changing, pulling off the hoodie and slipping into his training kit. The badge felt heavier on his chest than usual, but not in a bad way. More like armor. More like proof.

As he tied his laces, Héctor came over, bumping into him lightly with a shoulder.

"You alright, hermano?"

Francesco glanced up, met his friend's eyes. There was nothing guarded in them. No suspicion. Just concern.

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "Better now."

"You should've seen the look on Arteta's face when he heard about the dinner. Thought he was gonna fly to Spain himself."

Francesco chuckled. It was the first time he had, genuinely, in days.

"I wouldn't bet against him."

Bellerín grinned, then gave him a firm pat on the back. "Let's show them tonight."

They made their way out to the training pitch together, the sun finally cutting through the clouds, casting a hazy light over the lush grass. Players jogged, stretched, passed balls in small circles. The tempo was light. Easy. Controlled. Nobody wanted to pull a muscle a few hours before kickoff.

Francesco moved into a passing drill with Alexis, Giroud, and Theo Walcott. The touches came naturally. Sharp, rhythmic. His body knew what to do even when his mind was elsewhere. He could feel it coming back—moment by moment. The chemistry. The trust.

Later, during a short break, Arteta walked over, sipping from a thermos, eyes shielded by the brim of a navy cap.

"You good?" he asked quietly.

Francesco nodded. "Thanks for talking to them."

Arteta shrugged. "You didn't need defending. But they needed reminding. Happens in every squad. One picture, one rumor, and suddenly the walls start whispering."

He paused, then added, "I told them to remember who's led them out every match. Who puts his body on the line every week. Who never once asked to leave."

Francesco swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Thank you."

Arteta gave him a look—not soft, but proud. "You do your talking tonight."

And he would.

Because as the sun climbed and training wrapped, the team headed back in, minds already shifting to the game ahead. Francesco stayed behind just a little longer, jogging slow laps around the empty pitch, the stadium wind whispering across the grass.

The Emirates awaited.

He thought of the fans. The kids with their faces painted. The old-timers in their flat caps. The ones who sang his name even when it wasn't trendy. He thought of the ones who saw the picture and paused—not in anger, but in pain. He thought of proving something not to the media, not to Zidane, but to them.

The late afternoon sun was already falling behind the rooftops when the Arsenal team bus rumbled out of London Colney and onto the road toward the Emirates Stadium. Shadows stretched across the road like fingers clawing at the last light of the day, and inside the vehicle, the atmosphere was thick with focus—no music, no joking, no flicks of gum wrappers or loud card games. Just the low murmur of tactics, the occasional zip of a bag, and the ever-present hum of boots tapping against the metal floor.

Francesco sat near the front window, hood drawn back now, earbuds in—but this time, music actually playing. Something old. Bowie maybe. Or Radiohead. He wasn't sure. It wasn't about the song. It was about the silence between the lyrics, the little moments where the world outside slowed down and gave him space to think.

The city blurred by in streaks of brick and glass and red buses. They passed a group of kids at a corner wearing Arsenal scarves, waving madly when they spotted the bus. Francesco offered a small wave in return, the corner of his mouth twitching into something resembling a smile.

A matchday was always sacred.

But this one—tonight—was something else entirely.

They needed a win. Not just for the table. Not just to keep the Champions League dream alive. But to settle the noise. To restore the rhythm. To remind Europe, and perhaps even themselves, who they really were.

As the bus finally turned into the private gate beneath the Emirates, the lights of the stadium cast golden beams through the tinted glass. The players straightened, bags lifted from racks, boots clutched tight. The air grew sharper, less forgiving. Matchday air.

Inside the belly of the stadium, everything smelled of grass, rubber, sweat, and expectation. Security nodded as they passed. Staffers gave quiet greetings. But no one lingered. Everyone knew what this night meant.

The team moved down the familiar hallway, past framed photos of legends—Henry mid-sprint, Bergkamp levitating, Vieira roaring. Francesco's eyes caught the one of Fabregas in the tunnel, arm outstretched as captain. It didn't last long. Just a glance. But it stayed with him.

They entered the dressing room as one.

It was pristine, silent but for the occasional squeak of boots on tile and the shuffling of fabric. Kits hung like uniforms before battle—crimson red with clean white sleeves, numbers bold on the back, the gold UEFA star patch on the right arm glowing softly under the lights. Francesco's own shirt—number 9, with the captain's armband looped around the sleeve—waited like a promise.

But not yet.

First, the warm-up.

Each man changed into the sleek grey training kit—moisture-wicking, featherlight, practically second skin. Francesco pulled his over his head and stretched his arms, rotating his neck as the adrenaline began to wake in his chest. He caught eyes with Walcott across the room, who gave him a nod. Then Alexis, who offered a small, sharp smile—he was always like that before big games. Not nervous. Just coiled. Like a spring.

"Let's get out there," Héctor muttered behind him.

The players filed through the tunnel in staggered pairs. The cool air of the pitch greeted them like an old friend.

The Emirates was beautiful under lights—still half-full but buzzing with potential, fans filtering in, camera crews setting up, floodlights casting soft silver over the lush grass. Francesco breathed in. The scent of pitch was stronger here, mixed with the sweet electricity of anticipation. He could hear the low rumble of voices in the stands, building with every minute.

For 45 minutes, they moved—short sprints, passing drills, rondos, dynamic stretches. Francesco worked through every motion with clinical precision, sweat beginning to trickle, cleats biting into the turf with confidence. He exchanged a few words with Özil—about passing channels, about space in the half-spaces—and nodded back at Wenger, who watched from the touchline with his arms crossed, expression unreadable but deeply focused.

When the whistle blew from one of the assistants, signaling the end of warm-up, the team jogged back into the tunnel, slick with sweat but carrying the charge of something awakening.

Back in the dressing room, the mood shifted.

Gone were the casual glances and quiet jokes. Now, as each player stripped off the training kit and changed into the match-day uniform, it was all ritual. Laces double-knotted. Shin pads slipped in and out like clockwork. Tape pulled taut around wrists. Music still played quietly on the overhead speaker—nothing distracting, just ambient tones, something to fill the air without taking up space.

Wenger stepped forward.

Everyone went still.

His voice was calm. Measured. But firm enough to silence even the creaking benches.

"Alright," he began, glancing around. "We stick with the 4-2-3-1."

He gestured toward the whiteboard, where the formation had already been drawn out.

"Ospina in goal."

The Colombian nodded from his seat, already adjusting his gloves.

"Back four: Kieran on the left, Virgil and Laurent in the centre, Héctor on the right."

Gibbs and Bellerín shared a quick glance. Van Dijk, calm as ever, gave a slight nod, eyes already locked on the floor like he was visualizing every duel.

"In midfield," Wenger continued, "N'Golo and Santi will anchor. Keep them honest. Control tempo."

Kanté laced his boots tighter. Cazorla rolled his shoulders, then cracked his knuckles.

"Mesut as the 10. Be creative. Find pockets."

Özil didn't respond, but his face was set—serene but deadly serious.

"Wings: Alexis on the left, Theo on the right. Stretch them. Attack the channels."

Alexis was already bouncing on the balls of his feet. Walcott pulled his socks up with a sharp tug and nodded.

"And up top…" Wenger's eyes fell on Francesco, "Francesco. As always. You lead the line."

No further instruction was necessary.

Francesco stood up slowly, the room's light catching the captain's armband as he adjusted it just below his shoulder. He looked at each of them—not as teammates, but as brothers. Some young. Some seasoned. All hungry.

"You've all been here before," Wenger added, now speaking to the room, not the board. "You've won here. You've fought here. Tonight isn't about proving anything to them—" a small gesture, possibly toward the press room upstairs "—it's about reminding yourselves what this badge means."

A beat passed.

Then he turned to the whiteboard again.

"On the bench: Petr, Per, Nacho, Alex, Debuchy, Aaron, and Olivier. Be ready. You all have a role to play."

The subs nodded in sync, each of them strapping on their vests, already mentally calculating the game's flow and where they might fit in.

Francesco exhaled through his nose. Then stood tall.

He turned to the squad and spoke. Just a few words. But enough.

"We go out there," he said, voice steady, "and we remind them who we are. From the first whistle."

There was no roar of approval. No theatrical slap on the walls. Just the quiet, thudding agreement of warriors ready to step into the fight.

One by one, they filed out into the tunnel.

Francesco was last.

He looked back once—just once—at the dressing room. At the empty benches, the abandoned warm-up gear, the faint trace of sweat and liniment hanging in the air.

Then he turned, shoulders squared, and stepped out into the tunnel where the lights shone hot and the anthem of Europe waited to echo across the night.

The tunnel roared with light and heat, a strange corridor between the silence of preparation and the chaos of combat. Boots echoed on concrete. Jerseys rustled against shins. Banners waved beyond the tunnel's mouth, and somewhere above it all, the unmistakable hum of Europe's great nights began to stir. You could almost taste the electricity in the air.

Francesco stood at the front of the Arsenal line, chest rising slow and steady beneath the weight of the number 9. The captain's armband hugged his left bicep with purpose. Just beside him, Olympiacos's captain, Roberto—the Spaniard keeper, broad-shouldered and intense—matched his stance, gloves clutched, jaw set.

The referee, stern and compact, gave them both a final nod.

Then, at once, they walked.

Arsenal in a proud column: red and white glowing under the floodlights, crisp kits and sharp boots slicing through the charged air. Olympiacos in their deep navy blue away strip, the bold white accents shimmering with every step. The cameras followed them, beams slicing through the stadium's breathless hush.

As they emerged into full view, the Emirates roared alive.

Flares lit the air in the away section—red smoke curling into the London night sky like incense. Chants rang in Greek. The Arsenal faithful answered in full voice, the north side booming with song and thunderous claps.

And then, as if the world paused to inhale, the stadium quieted in that sacred beat before it began.

The Champions League anthem began.

Majestic. Inevitable. That chorus of power and promise.

Every player stood tall as the music rose, spine straight, eyes forward. Francesco lifted his chin slightly, gaze fixed somewhere just above the stands. He didn't sing—but he didn't have to. The song had already stitched itself into the blood and bone of nights like this. Of triumphs, heartbreaks, history.

The camera passed each face in sequence. Özil's calm stare. Alexis, eyes blazing. Walcott, nodding rhythmically to the music. Behind them, Santi and Kanté, both focused, but in their own ways—Santi with the lightness of a magician still in rehearsal, Kanté with the stillness of a soldier already deep in the fight.

When the anthem drew to a close, applause filled the void it left. The officials led the handshake procession—referee, linesmen, fourth official—followed by Roberto and Francesco.

Hands clasped, brief nods. No words.

Then Francesco turned to greet the Olympiacos squad. Familiar faces in the tunnel, but strangers on the battlefield. Fortounis, the playmaker. Kasami, full of fire. Pardo, dangerous on the break. Each man received a measured greeting from the Arsenal skipper—firm grip, quick glance, then done.

The teams broke apart into two lines again, and the referee stepped between the captains for the coin toss.

Francesco and Roberto moved to the center circle as the rest of the players fanned out, stretching and jostling lightly, each man beginning to pace the game already in their heads.

The referee held up a single silver coin between them.

"You call," he said, offering it to Francesco.

"Heads," came the answer, simple and sure.

The coin flew, spun, caught light, then fell into the ref's palm.

"Heads."

Francesco exhaled, just once. Not victory. But control.

"We'll take the kickoff," he said, eyes flicking to Roberto. The keeper nodded in acknowledgment, already backing off toward the South End.

Francesco turned and trotted to his position. Behind him, the stadium was reaching its peak. All around the pitch, flags waved. Drums pounded in the away section. But here, in the middle, there was only focus.

And then, the whistle blew.

The game began like a bullet from the chamber.

Arsenal, in full rhythm early, pressed high. Olympiacos, quick and compact, countered with venom. Within minutes, the match revealed its identity—not a chess match, but a storm.

Francesco received the ball in the sixth minute on the edge of the box after a sweeping move from Özil and Cazorla. He twisted past one defender, laid it off for Alexis, who took a touch and blasted—Saved!

Roberto dove left, gloves hard against the turf, denying the Chilean with a palm strong enough to punch stone.

The Emirates rose, a gasp of frustration and awe in one breath.

Seconds later, Olympiacos countered.

A slick move down the right found Pardo free in space. His low cross split the defense—Van Dijk got a boot on it, but only half. The ball rolled kindly to Fortounis, who struck low and sharp.

Ospina dived. Full stretch.

A fingertip save. Just enough. The ball clipped the post and went out.

The game refused to breathe.

By the fifteenth minute, both goalkeepers had made two crucial saves apiece. Blocks came flying in. Gibbs threw himself into a sliding tackle to deny an angled shot from Kasami. On the other end, Kieran linked with Alexis to send Francesco through—but before he could shoot, Botía lunged in with a heroic last-ditch block.

Bodies hit the ground. Grass tore. The pitch became a canvas of friction and fire.

Still no goals.

But not for lack of hunger.

Wenger stood on the sideline, arms crossed but eyes wide. He barked a few instructions in French toward Coquelin and pointed sharply toward the space behind the Olympiacos midfield. Mesut picked it up. Started floating there more. Finding the half-space.

In the 21st minute, Özil slid a pass into the channel—just behind the defense. Francesco timed his run perfectly. He was in.

First touch killed the ball dead. Second, he opened his body—

ROBERTO AGAIN.

A massive save, booting the shot wide off his shin. Francesco grimaced, nodded to himself. It was the right move. Just not the right result. Not yet.

Back the other way, Laurent Koscielny made two heroic blocks in quick succession, first throwing himself in front of a looping effort from Ideye, then rising like a pillar to head away the second wave.

Every moment carried weight. No space was given freely. Every yard was contested like it mattered. Because it did.

By the 30th minute, both teams were slick with sweat, shirts clinging, chests heaving. And yet, the pace didn't dip. It rose.

The defenders—on both sides—were playing like gladiators.

Virgil van Dijk, always composed, directed traffic at the back like a general, one hand raised, one foot always ready to intercept. He nudged Gibbs into tighter coverage, urged Bellerín to step a few yards higher. Every inch mattered.

On the Olympiacos side, Botía and Siovas defended like men possessed. Their shirts already streaked with turf, their faces tight with exertion, they hurled themselves into every challenge like it might be the last.

And the keepers—Ospina and Roberto—were standing tall, refusing to be beaten.

Ospina had denied a header from Milivojevic in the 28th minute, fingertips scraping the ball just over the bar. Roberto, not to be outdone, saved with his chest in the 29th, smothering a vicious drive from Walcott that skipped off the grass like a bullet.

Still 0–0. But the scoreboard lied.

This wasn't stale. This wasn't deadlock.

This was war.

On the sideline, Wenger turned and spoke to Steve Bould. Briefly. Quietly. A hand gesture. A signal.

Inside the pitch, Francesco could feel it too.

The next ten minutes could tilt the whole match.

Then suddenly, at the 33rd minute, the rhythm snapped.

One pass. One turn. One lapse.

Arsenal had been in possession—briefly—near the halfway line, probing. Coquelin tried a forward ball to Özil, but it was slightly behind him. Fortounis read it like a novel he'd memorized. He stepped in, took it clean, and was already turning as the crowd groaned.

Within a blink, he surged forward.

Arsenal's midfield was stretched, caught in transition. Cazorla spun on his heels to track back, and Koscielny began to step up, but Fortounis didn't hesitate. He saw the gap. He saw the space.

And he threaded the needle.

A perfect ball, whipped diagonally through the inside-right channel, bypassing Koscielny, zipping just ahead of Van Dijk's recovering stride. It rolled like it had purpose, as if it knew who it was meant for.

Felipe Pardo didn't break stride. His first touch was a whisper, guiding the ball forward without slowing down. Bellerín, caught too high, was scrambling across. Ospina was already off his line, narrowing the angle, arms wide.

But Pardo didn't flinch.

Just inside the box, on his second touch, he struck it.

Low. Hard. With a vengeance.

The ball skidded under Ospina's left arm, skipping off the turf, then snapped the netting behind him with a flat, sickening thump. The kind of sound that silences crowds.

1–0. Olympiacos.

The away section detonated—flares again, red smoke now mingled with fists and flags and voices that cracked the air like glass.

Pardo wheeled away in celebration, fists clenched, roaring toward the bench. Fortounis chased after him, arms wide, yelling in Greek as teammates mobbed them.

And for a moment—just a moment—the Emirates froze.

Not in disbelief. In that stunned kind of stillness that comes when something you felt could happen, hoped wouldn't, suddenly does. Thousands of faces turning toward one another, toward the pitch, trying to process what had just unfolded.

Francesco stood still near the center circle. Hands on hips. Chest rising, slower now, jaw set. He blinked once. Then again. Like a boxer who'd been tagged just clean enough to know he'd been hit.

Wenger exhaled sharply on the touchline, then turned to Bould again, this time with urgency in his words.

"Too much space," he muttered in French, gesturing to the midfield gap.

Inside the pitch, the Arsenal players regrouped, eyes scanning, minds racing. Özil clapped once, sharply, trying to snap his teammates back into the rhythm. Van Dijk and Koscielny shouted adjustments. Coquelin punched his fist into his palm.

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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