The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The noise hadn't fully faded when Arsenal restarted from the center circle, and Francesco Lee was already signaling. A wide sweep of the arm. A point to Walcott. A nod to Özil. His face didn't flinch. The only emotion allowed now was precision.

The ball was rolled back. Koscielny took a short touch and sprayed it out to Bellerín. The tempo kicked again—snapping, insistent. No panic. Just pressure. The kind of response Francesco demanded from them—not in words, but in rhythm.

The ball fizzed from Coquelin to Cazorla. Then out to Alexis on the left touchline.

And there, the match cracked open again.

Alexis took his marker on with that electric touch of his. The faintest feint, and he was gone—like smoke through a fence. Down the flank he went, drawing two defenders with him. As the box loomed, he slowed just enough to glance up. Then clipped a ball—angled and tight—into the six-yard area.

It didn't look dangerous at first.

But Walcott saw it. Knew it.

He exploded toward the near post, darting behind Botía like a ghost. One touch. A right-foot stab with his instep. Not powerful—but cruelly placed. It beat Roberto at the near post, tucked just under the crossbar.

GOAL.

1–1.

The Emirates burst into noise like a dam breaking. A wall of sound so immediate it felt like the stadium itself exhaled through its bones.

Walcott didn't even slow down—arms wide, sprinting to the corner flag, his celebration a blur of movement and release. Alexis followed with a grin, body slick with sweat, shouting in Spanish as he caught up to wrap him in a bear hug. Behind them, Francesco jogged up with a smile that was more steel than joy. He clapped Walcott's shoulder once—hard. No words. Just keep going.

Olympiacos hadn't even had time to settle into their lead. Two minutes. That's all they'd had.

And now they had to reset.

Back at the dugout, Wenger's arms unfolded. He didn't smile, not yet, but he looked calmer—if only slightly. "Bonne réaction," he said to Bould.

But the storm wasn't done with them.

Arsenal pressed again. Özil started to find rhythm, floating into those impossible seams just behind Milivojević, feeding the ball between lines like a violinist finding his favorite string. Francesco nearly got on the end of a whipped ball in the 38th, sliding inches short at the far post.

And then, heartbreak.

The 40th minute. A corner for Olympiacos. Routine, simple.

Or it should have been.

Fortounis curled it in—not particularly threatening. It floated toward the far post, where Ospina rose to claim it. High, commanding, gloves ready.

But something went wrong.

Maybe the flight changed last second. Maybe the stadium lights glared. But as he reached the apex of his jump, Ospina misjudged it. Just slightly.

He fumbled.

The ball slipped through his gloves and spun backward—across the line.

Own goal.

Silence.

Disbelief.

Ospina landed, twisted around, and reached for it in the same motion—but it was too late. The referee looked to his assistant. Then to his wrist. The watch had buzzed.

Goal confirmed.

2–1, Olympiacos.

Their away fans erupted again. Flare smoke rose once more, a crimson spiral. Pardo punched the air. Even the defenders sprinted toward Ospina's end, delirious.

But in the Arsenal half—chaos.

Ospina was on his knees, face in his gloves. Koscielny crouched beside him, murmuring something urgent. Van Dijk turned away, already barking orders to reset. Özil looked to the bench, frustration evident.

Francesco didn't move.

Not yet.

He stood on the edge of the box, arms crossed over his hips. Watching. Processing. He couldn't afford anger. Not now. It would come later, maybe. Or maybe not at all. But not now.

The referee jogged toward the center circle. The whistle blew again.

Restart.

No pause. No time for regret.

Cazorla gathered everyone quickly. Bellerín sprinted forward for the next phase. Wenger, on the sideline, had both arms extended—calm down, calm down. Play smart.

Olympiacos pulled back into their shape, compact and clever, waiting for Arsenal to panic.

But Arsenal didn't panic.

They passed. With intent. With purpose.

Özil found space again. Alexis rotated inside. Cazorla began to slow the tempo, just enough to draw Olympiacos out.

And Francesco?

He hovered.

On the shoulder of the last defender. Quiet. Invisible.

Then came the break.

45+1.

Özil again—the architect. He received the ball just inside the center circle. With one turn, one hip drop, he shook his marker. Then looked up.

He saw it.

Francesco pointing once. Then running.

Özil's pass was a thing of art. A curling slide-rule ball through the tightest alley between Botía and Siovas. It rolled with backspin, settling into Francesco's path like a gift wrapped in velvet.

And Francesco—he didn't hesitate.

Two strides. A touch to control. Then, eyes up, body open.

He struck it low, across the keeper.

Roberto got a glove on it. Not enough.

The net rippled.

GOAL.

2–2.

Just like that.

This time, Francesco celebrated. Not wildly. But with weight.

He turned, arms extended slightly, and jogged toward the North Bank. His face was calm. A storm behind the eyes. Teammates swarmed him—Alexis first, then Özil, then Walcott, shouting and hugging and pulling him into the center of it.

At the bench, Wenger clapped—once, slowly. A single nod. That was the captain's answer.

Francesco stood in the huddle of bodies and let the noise wash over him. He didn't say much. Just two words to Mesut as they broke apart:

"Perfect ball."

And then, just like that, the whistle blew for halftime.

2–2.

Forty-five minutes behind them. Forty-five still to come.

The tunnel echoed with the muffled stamp of boots and distant stadium chants—somewhere between a war drum and a heartbeat. Francesco walked near the front of the Arsenal line, Özil beside him, both silent as they emerged into the fluorescent-lit underpass that led to the dressing room. Behind them, Van Dijk muttered something low to Kante. Alexis was breathing hard, tugging his jersey slightly at the collar, still drenched from the intensity of the first half.

The red double doors opened wide, and the team filed in.

The dressing room was hot, humid with sweat and adrenaline. The moment the last player stepped through, Wenger turned from the tactics board, his arms already folding behind his back. Bould handed out bottles of water. Lehmann hovered by the keeper's corner, eyes on Ospina, who sat hunched over, still visibly wrecked by the own goal.

Wenger didn't waste time.

"Sit," he said, his voice firm but calm.

Francesco remained standing, pacing with slow steps, hands on his hips as he listened. The others settled on benches. Koscielny peeled off his shin pads. Alexis leaned forward, elbows on knees, never taking his eyes off the manager.

"We are in this now," Wenger began, looking at each of them. "You responded well. Twice. But this—" he pointed to the magnetic board, where little red and white discs showed Arsenal's shape pressing forward "—this is not finished."

He stepped closer, pushing the center of the formation slightly higher.

"Olympiacos are clever. They will sit back now. Compact. Five across the back in moments. They will hold deep and wait for the counter. We can break them. But not with impatience. Not with desperation."

He looked at Özil.

"Keep dragging their lines apart."

A nod.

Then to Alexis. "They're doubling you. It's working. But it's opening the inside lane."

Finally, to Francesco, whose eyes met his in a steady, unreadable stare.

"You saw it. Twice. You'll see it again."

Francesco gave a short nod. "Siovas is slower on the turn. Botía commits early."

"Exploit that," Wenger said, pointing a finger between them. "And make sure we stay sharp on the second ball. No mistakes at the back."

He hesitated then, only briefly, before turning to Ospina.

"We move forward. Together."

There was no rebuke in his voice. Just quiet assurance. Ospina gave a slight nod, still looking down, but the worst of the weight had shifted.

Wenger clapped his hands once, loud. "We go again. Clear heads."

And with that, they stood. The sounds of boot studs tapping against the concrete floor filled the room as they made their way out, one by one. The fire of halftime burned behind them, turning into resolve.

Back through the tunnel.

The world opened again into the roar of the second half.

As they stepped onto the pitch, Francesco looked toward the Olympiacos bench and noticed the change immediately.

Ideye was off. In his place stood Finnbogason, bouncing on his toes, ready for the restart. A different threat—more direct, quicker in behind. It didn't go unnoticed. Van Dijk leaned over to whisper something to Koscielny, who nodded sharply.

The whistle blew.

The second half was on.

Arsenal started with intensity, but not recklessness. The tempo was set by Özil and Cazorla, who moved the ball between lines like craftsmen. Kante snapped into tackles with perfect timing, stifling Olympiacos' attempts to reset.

Then came the moment.

55th minute.

It began with Kante stealing the ball near midfield, intercepting a lazy sideways pass from Cambiasso. He laid it off quickly to Özil, who turned and pushed the tempo. One touch. Two.

Francesco was already on the move.

Özil didn't pass.

Not yet.

Instead, he angled his run slightly outward, dragging Siovas with him—and then slipped the ball centrally.

Francesco received it in stride, facing Botía.

What followed was pure theatre.

A deft flick of the outside boot to feint left, and Botía bit. Francesco darted right, pace blistering, then chopped inside again—Siovas lunged.

Too late.

Francesco danced between them both, a movement so smooth it could've been choreographed. He was through. Into the box. Roberto came off his line—

Francesco opened his body, then slammed it low into the opposite corner.

GOAL.

3–2.

Arms out, chest puffed, he raced to the corner flag this time with more fire. The stadium erupted—no roar quite like a comeback goal. Özil chased him down, tackling him in a half-hug as Alexis joined with a whoop of joy. The Emirates felt like it was breathing as one.

Francesco turned back toward midfield, clapping once toward the fans, then once more toward Wenger on the touchline.

But there was no rest.

Two minutes later—57th minute—Wenger made a change. Koscielny had signaled to the bench with a grimace, clutching his thigh just slightly. No risk.

Per Mertesacker stood ready.

Francesco jogged toward him as the substitution was confirmed.

He didn't hesitate.

He peeled the armband off his bicep, met Per's eyes, and handed it over.

"You lead from here," he said with a small smile.

Mertesacker clapped his back. "We finish this."

The German slotted into the back line as Francesco jogged ahead again, returning to his striker's post. Even now, he never lingered in the spotlight.

On the hour mark—60 minutes—another change.

Cazorla off. Aaron Ramsey on.

A tactical shift. Ramsey dropped deeper alongside Kante, forming a mobile, sharp midfield axis. Less control, more bite. Wenger was anticipating Olympiacos' push to equalize—and readying for the kill.

The shape changed slightly. Özil was given freedom to drift. Ramsey played box-to-box with sharp aggression. Kante, the rock, continued to win everything.

And then—65th minute.

Walcott.

The goal began in Arsenal's half.

Ramsey nicked the ball from Fortounis and immediately found Kante, who turned and picked out Theo with a crisp pass to feet. Walcott had space.

And he ran.

He flew.

Siovas backed off, unsure, trying to angle him away—but Walcott didn't need to shoot.

He looked up once.

Then bent a perfect low cross behind the defense, past the outstretched leg of Botía—

And there was Alexis.

Timing perfect. Left foot. Back of the net.

GOAL.

4–2.

The Emirates detonated.

Alexis raced to the corner flag, pounding the Arsenal crest on his shirt. Walcott sprinted after him, grinning, pointing with both hands as if to say, I told you I'd get one right.

On the sideline, Wenger clapped rhythmically now, eyes narrowing only briefly as he shouted toward Monreal and Bellerín to stay alert.

The game still had fire in it.

But Arsenal had the control.

The storm had shifted. And they were riding it now, not drowning in it.

Francesco looked over his shoulder at the scoreboard. 65 minutes gone. 4–2.

Still work to do.

The restart after Alexis Sánchez's goal had barely settled the roar of the Emirates when it happened.

Just a minute later—66th minute—a silence fell like a sheet of ice over the home support.

Olympiacos refused to die.

They moved quickly, ruthlessly. Felipe Pardo, who'd been quiet since halftime, suddenly sprang to life down the right flank, skipping past Gibbs with a burst of pace that caught even Kante momentarily off guard. The Arsenal defensive line, still slightly disorganized from the goal celebration, hadn't reset fully.

Pardo didn't hesitate. He whipped in an early cross low and hard across the six-yard box.

Finnbogason had timed his run to perfection.

Sliding in between Mertesacker and Van Dijk, the Icelandic striker met the ball with the inside of his right foot—cool, clinical. Ospina barely had time to react.

The net rippled.

4–3.

The away section exploded in a cloud of red flares and distant chants, while the Emirates groaned under the weight of the goal. The Arsenal players turned back upfield quickly, frustration and focus in equal measure.

Francesco glanced to the sideline, already trying to read Wenger's reaction. There was no panic in the Frenchman's stance—just a subtle motion to calm. Both palms down, like a conductor easing his orchestra back to rhythm.

And that's what Arsenal did.

No heads dropped.

No nerves unravelled.

Instead, they closed ranks.

The next seven minutes were all about discipline—Kante intercepting, Ramsey running with relentless purpose, Özil floating between defenders like smoke. Francesco dropped deeper at times to help link play, sensing the shift in tempo.

Then came the change on the Olympiacos bench.

73rd minute.

Seba off.

In came Hernâni.

A player with pace and flair—more direct, more erratic. It was a clear sign: Olympiacos weren't parking any buses. They wanted another.

But Arsenal didn't give them room to dream.

77th minute.

A moment that would hang in the North Bank's memory for years.

It began like so many Arsenal attacks that night—with a Kante tackle. This time, near the right edge of the center circle. He slid in with perfect timing, nicked the ball off Fortounis, and it popped loose toward Ramsey.

The Welshman didn't hesitate.

He took one touch and lifted his head.

Francesco was already moving.

His body language said everything—angled, surging toward the gap between Botía and Siovas again. Ramsey saw it and curved the pass with sublime precision, threading it just beyond the defenders' reach, spinning gently into Francesco's path.

The Emirates held its breath.

Francesco didn't.

He took it in stride, brought it slightly across his body with his left, then let it roll.

Roberto charged again.

But this time, Francesco waited.

He slowed, drew the keeper close, then with the most delicate of touches, flicked the ball around him and tapped it home into the empty net.

GOAL.

5–3.

The hat trick was his.

But it was what came next that turned the goal from triumph into legend.

Francesco sprinted toward the North Bank, arms wide, his expression unreadable—until he reached the corner.

Then he stopped.

Turned fully toward the fans.

Dropped to one knee.

And placed his hand over the Arsenal crest on his chest.

He bowed his head.

A pause.

A gesture of loyalty, unshakable and unapologetic.

The stadium erupted—not just in noise, but in something deeper. Something rare.

Love.

From the crowd. From the players. From the club.

Alexis was the first to reach him, dragging him to his feet and embracing him. Özil followed, patting his head gently, saying something close to his ear that only they would know. Ramsey grinned, ruffling his hair like an older brother. Even Van Dijk jogged up to slap him on the back.

Near the touchline, Wenger clapped once, nodding. He didn't smile much—but his eyes said everything.

It wasn't just about the goal.

It was about the message.

Loyalty. In a world full of noise.

The game wasn't over yet, but something shifted. Arsenal had the grip now, and they knew it.

Olympiacos still pushed, desperate for another way in. Hernâni tried to cause problems down the right, and Fortounis had a brief look at goal in the 82nd minute—a speculative curling effort that Ospina parried with solid hands.

Then came another change from Wenger.

84th minute.

Walcott, spent from sprints and assists, was applauded off the pitch.

In came Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, all energy and fresh legs. He immediately took up his role wide, pressing high, tracking back when needed, providing width and muscle against tired Greek defenders.

Arsenal's shape settled into a secure, flexible 4-2-3-1. Özil continued to orchestrate in the middle, while Francesco remained up top, still alert, still dangerous. Chamberlain and Alexis widened the field, dragging tired Olympiacos full-backs into uncomfortable spaces.

As the final minutes ticked on, the Emirates Stadium chanted louder and louder. The song that filled the cold North London air wasn't just one of victory, but of vindication.

"Ohhhhhh Francesco Lee!

He came from nowhere, now he's ours to see!

With a flick, with a goal, he leads us free!

He bleeds the red of Arsenal, that's Francesco Lee!"

The final whistle blew.

FULL TIME: Arsenal 5 – Olympiacos 3.

The players shook hands, some collapsing briefly to the turf, others exchanging shirts or high-fives. The match had been brutal, breathless. But the energy on the pitch now was buoyant, relieved, satisfied.

Francesco didn't go straight down the tunnel.

He walked slowly around the pitch, clapping the fans in all corners of the Emirates. The hat trick ball was tucked under one arm. His expression was humble, almost contemplative.

When he reached the North Bank, he stopped once more.

Raised the ball.

And then pointed—just once—at the Arsenal crest on his chest.

A final salute.

Behind him, Wenger shook hands with Olympiacos manager Marco Silva, then turned to embrace Bould and Lehmann. They knew how vital this win was. Not just for the points, but for the pulse of the team.

Francesco eventually made his way into the tunnel, joined by Alexis and Özil. Behind them, the others followed in small clumps—Van Dijk and Kante discussing moments of defensive coordination, Ramsey laughing with Chamberlain, Ospina and Mertesacker trading tired nods. Inside the dressing room, the mood was vibrant. Loud music. Laughter. Slaps on backs. Bottles of water passed like victory champagne.

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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: 10

Goal: 18

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