The King Of Arsenal

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They stood like that for a while, letting the sauce simmer, the air between them warmer than the fire. It was domestic. It was quiet. It was everything Francesco had needed — after the headlines, the noise, the confrontation, the weight of a decision that could have splintered trust beyond repair.

The week rolled forward with the rhythm of a life slightly more grounded, more whole — the echo of Leah's laughter in the kitchen still clinging to the walls of Francesco's Richmond home, the scent of garlic and tomatoes long gone but the warmth of that night lingering in the back of his mind like a steady flame. She curled up beside him beneath soft linen sheets, her breathing slow and steady against his side. There had been no big declarations, no grand resolutions after Jorge Mendes' apology — just the quiet understanding between two people who trusted each other to weather the noise together.

And somehow, that quiet was exactly what Francesco needed to steady himself.

By the time Arsenal's clash against Manchester United came around, on a brisk, sun-drenched Saturday afternoon, Francesco was sharp. Not just fit — focused. Balanced. Aware of what this game meant not just for the table, but for their rhythm, their statement of intent. Old Trafford always came with weight, but Arsenal had a wind at their backs now — and when they stepped out onto the Emirates pitch on 10 October, the crowd roared not with hope, but with expectation.

The match began with Arsenal looking lively. Sánchez, in particular, buzzed down the left like a man possessed, full of energy and menace, twisting defenders inside out every time he got on the ball. Francesco, wearing the captain's armband once again, dropped deep in the opening minutes, linking play with Cazorla and Kante, drawing United's midfielders out of position. Özil danced through the channels with his usual ghost-like movement, and Walcott stretched the line relentlessly with angled runs behind Blind and Darmian.

Then, in the 15th minute, the Emirates erupted.

Francesco started it — a clever switch of play to the right that caught United off balance. Walcott brought it down in stride, feinted inside then dropped a shoulder and burned down the flank. He picked his head up at the byline and cut the ball back across the six-yard box, where Alexis Sánchez ghosted between two defenders and stabbed it in first-time with his left foot. 1–0. The crowd roared, Sánchez slid toward the corner flag, and Francesco jogged over with a grin, his arms wide to pull the Chilean into a hug.

Ten minutes later, Arsenal struck again. Özil, dictating tempo now, picked up a loose clearance near the halfway line and immediately released Walcott again down the right. This time, Theo didn't even look — he just curled it early toward the edge of the box. Sánchez read it all the way. He let the ball bounce once and ripped a volley into the top corner that left De Gea rooted. 2–0. It was electrifying football, the kind that made you believe this Arsenal side could beat anyone.

By the time the half-hour mark came around, United looked shell-shocked. Cazorla had begun to toy with them in midfield, spinning away from challenges like it was all too easy. And in the 33rd minute, he made his presence felt again — a deft outside-of-the-foot pass slicing through the lines, right into Francesco's stride.

The captain didn't hesitate.

He took one touch to push the ball beyond a retreating Smalling, then shaped to shoot — only to fake the strike and drag the ball inside. Schneiderlin slid helplessly past him. With a clear view of goal now, Francesco opened up his body and passed the ball into the far corner with his right foot, low and clinical. 3–0.

He didn't celebrate with his usual fervor. No sliding knees, no shouting. Just a turn to the corner flag, both arms raised, and a hand pressed to the Arsenal badge on his chest as his teammates mobbed him. The crowd sang his name — that same song they'd started singing last season when he was still just a surprise. Now he was a constant.

In the second half, Wenger made some adjustments. Ramsey came on for Coquelin, and the Welshman added fresh legs and another attacking option. It wasn't long before Arsenal added a fourth — Özil himself getting on the scoresheet in the 65th minute after Walcott drove down the right yet again, pulling the ball back for Mesut to side-foot home.

The game ended 4–0.

At full-time, as the players walked off the pitch to a standing ovation, Francesco lingered a moment longer. He looked up into the crowd — the banners, the scarves, the sea of red and white. A surge of something unspoken rose in his chest. This… this is where he belonged.

The dressing room afterward was a place of laughter and sweat and half-shouted banter. Mertesacker passed out bottles of water like a stern older brother. Sánchez replayed his second goal on someone's phone over and over. Wenger entered the room quietly, but the moment his smile appeared, the whole room knew what that win meant to him.

Francesco sat back in his spot, lacing off his boots slowly, feeling the buzz still humming through his limbs. Then his phone vibrated — a message from Leah.

"You looked like a captain today. Proud of you. I'll have your favourite tea waiting when you're back. ❤️"

He smiled, thumbs dancing quickly to type a reply.

"We'll toast with it. You were my good luck charm. See you soon."

The mood carried into the next fixture — an away trip to Vicarage Road to face Watford. It was a Saturday evening kick-off, under the lights. The kind of game that, in past years, Arsenal might've found tricky — but not this side. Not in this form.

Francesco could feel the confidence radiating off his teammates as they warmed up. There was a clarity to their passing. A speed. A kind of unity that went beyond tactics.

And sure enough, it didn't take long for Arsenal to assert themselves.

Kanté — relentless as ever — broke up play in midfield in the 14th minute, sliding in on Capoue with that signature surgical precision. He popped up immediately, dribbled past a second man and slid a through ball perfectly into Francesco's path.

The captain didn't even think. He just struck it low and hard with his left foot — a blur past the keeper and into the bottom corner. 1–0.

He sprinted toward the away fans, arms out, a fierce smile on his face. The team piled on, and Kanté — ever modest — simply patted him on the back and jogged away with a small nod.

Just before half-time, Arsenal doubled their lead.

Ozil drifted in from the left, spotted Alexis peeling off the back of the defender, and curled a delicious pass in behind. Sánchez took it first time on the bounce and flicked it over the keeper with audacious ease. 2–0.

In the second half, Wenger made his substitutions. Giroud came on to rest Francesco, and the big Frenchman wasted no time making his mark. Özil, again the provider, whipped in a cross from deep. Giroud rose above Cathcart and powered it home. 3–0.

Then came the final blow.

In the 83rd minute, Hector Bellerín surged forward on the overlap. His cross came fizzing into the box where Ramsey arrived like a freight train, meeting it perfectly on the volley. 4–0.

Watford barely had a sniff all match. The clean sheet was preserved thanks to solid defending from Koscielny and Van Dijk, and Cech barely had to intervene.

In the post-match interview, Francesco stood on the pitch beside Özil and Sánchez, the three of them grinning under the floodlights.

"We're building something strong," he said, voice calm, eyes steady. "Not just on the pitch — in the dressing room, in training. It's everyone. The staff. The players. The fans. We believe in each other."

And it was true.

That belief was beginning to take root not just in North London, but across the country. Pundits stopped talking about Arsenal's usual "collapse." Fans started whispering about the title. There was a spine to this team. There was steel.

Back home later that night, Francesco returned to Richmond exhausted but fulfilled. The house was quiet when he stepped inside, but the light in the kitchen was on, and Leah was there — curled up on the couch with a book in hand, a mug of tea beside her.

She looked up and smiled as he entered.

"Two games. Eight goals. None conceded," she said with mock formality. "Not bad, Captain."

He dropped his duffel by the door and crossed to her, collapsing beside her on the sofa, his head landing softly in her lap.

"We're on fire right now," he murmured, eyes half-closed as her fingers found their way into his hair. "I don't want it to end."

"It won't," she said quietly. "Not if you all keep playing for each other."

He nodded. Let her hand lull him toward sleep.

The next morning came draped in a cool, crisp October calm — the kind of London morning that flirted with winter just enough to make you reach for a heavier coat but not quite enough to frost the grass. The golden light of dawn spilled across Richmond's sleepy streets as Francesco pulled the BMW X5 out of his driveway, the soft purr of the engine cutting through the quiet. He wore a grey hoodie over his Arsenal tee, dark joggers, and those black aviator sunglasses that made him look more like an off-duty spy than a footballer on his way to training.

Inside the car, the air was filled with low-tempo jazz — Leah's playlist from last night still playing through the speakers. He didn't change it. Somehow, the warm saxophones and gentle drums fit the mood. Francesco felt relaxed.

In less than a week, they would face Bayern Munich at the Emirates — a colossal fixture that loomed large in the calendar. The German giants were a different beast entirely. Ruthless. Disciplined. Structured. And if Arsenal wanted to lay down a marker in Europe, this was the time.

As he pulled into Colney's familiar training grounds, the BMW slowed into its usual spot — not the flashiest one, not the one closest to the doors. Francesco had always preferred something more low-key. He stepped out, stretched a little as the morning breeze swept across the open car park, and walked toward the main building. A few youth players crossing the lot offered nods and shy greetings, which he returned with a warm, "Morning, lads."

Inside, the place was already buzzing.

Francesco pushed through the doors and into the dressing room, the smell of liniment, turf, and coffee immediately wrapping around him like a second skin. It was alive in there — laughter, banter, the snap of tape, the whirr of zippers.

He paused for a moment in the doorway, letting it all wash over him. The boys were already in, most of them halfway into their training kits. Alexis had his shirt on backwards again and was arguing — good-naturedly — with Nacho Monreal about whose fault it was. Walcott and Ramsey were doing keep-ups with a rolled-up pair of socks in the corner. Cazorla sat on the bench with one boot on, smiling like a man who knew secrets about everyone.

"Look who finally decided to show up," Olivier Giroud called, grinning from the other side of the room.

Francesco smiled, dropping his duffel bag in his usual spot. "Some of us need beauty sleep. Can't all rely on cheekbones and hair gel like you, Oli."

Laughter rippled through the room. Even Per Mertesacker let out a quiet chuckle from where he was tightening his laces.

"Oi, Capitaine," Alexis said, tossing Francesco his training shirt. "Big week, ah?"

"The biggest," Francesco replied, pulling the red-and-navy top over his head. "But we're ready. They won't know what hit them."

There was a shift in the air at that. Jokes settled down a little. Everyone knew what was coming. Bayern weren't Watford. They weren't United, even. This was Lahm. Müller. Neuer. Lewandowski. Douglas Costa. A machine with gears that didn't slip. But Francesco's calm confidence had become something of a compass for the dressing room. If he looked at ease, the others followed suit.

They headed out together not long after — a flock of red across the green pitches under a pale blue sky. The training session began with some warm-ups, the usual rondo games in small circles, sharp passes, two-touches, laughter whenever someone got nutmegged. Özil was the worst for it, always floating just out of reach, flicking balls through legs and raising his hands in mock innocence.

Francesco joined one of the central rondos alongside Kante, Ramsey, and Walcott, with Bellerín and Oxlade-Chamberlain rotating in. The touches were crisp. There was a rhythm, a joy even in these small exercises. Arsène Wenger watched from the sidelines with his arms folded, a content smile on his face. Steve Bould stood beside him, occasionally barking reminders or tactical instructions, but even he seemed more relaxed than usual.

After drills, the squad moved into more structured team play — working through transitional phases and pressing triggers. Bayern liked to suffocate. Francesco knew that. They would need to be razor-sharp, both on and off the ball.

"Kante, you sit deeper if Alaba starts pushing forward," Francesco said quietly during a break, walking alongside the Frenchman. "Let Mesut drift left into that channel behind Alonso. He hates being turned."

Kante nodded. "And if Müller drops?"

"We will let Cazorla track him. We can't let him pull Kos or Virgil out of position."

Wenger noticed the exchange and gave a small nod of approval. Francesco wasn't just a captain now — he was a strategist. A conductor among strings. The team respected that.

After a few more tactical walkthroughs and set-piece routines, training wound down with finishing drills. A few of the players stayed behind to get extra touches in — Sánchez always did. Özil worked on his chips. Giroud on near-post flicks. And Francesco? He worked with Thierry Henry that specially invite by Wenger to train him.

The club legend, now more involved in mentoring the forwards, had been impressed with Francesco's eye for goal.

"Not everything has to be perfect," Henry said as he watched Francesco slice a volley just wide. "Sometimes it's about the moment. The instinct. You've got that. Don't overthink it."

Francesco nodded. Took another ball. One touch. Bang — right into the top corner.

Henry smiled. "See?"

After showering and changing, the players filtered out slowly — some to the cafeteria, others to treatment rooms. Francesco lingered near the tactics board, eyes scanning the plan laid out by Wenger and the analysts.

"Think they'll come with a back three?" Ramsey asked, coming up beside him with a smoothie in hand.

"Maybe," Francesco replied. "Depends if Pep wants to overload us wide or dominate the middle. If they're brave, they'll push high and try to press us into mistakes."

"And if they're cautious?"

"We punish them."

Ramsey chuckled, clinking his plastic cup against Francesco's water bottle. "To punishment, then."

The tactical room at Colney always felt a bit colder than the rest of the facility — maybe it was the tile floors, maybe it was the atmosphere. The air inside held a seriousness that was hard to ignore. No banter here. No music. Just sharp minds, focused eyes, and a whiteboard that had seen more permutations than a chessboard in a Kasparov match.

Wenger had gathered them with that quiet, authoritative voice he used when things truly mattered. Not the raised tone of a sideline correction, not the fatherly cadence of encouragement — but the clipped, deliberate words of a man who knew the stakes.

"Everyone, inside. Tactical session. Now."

By the time Francesco entered the room, most of the squad was already in their seats — a horseshoe formation around the wide monitor that hung on the wall. Koscielny and van Dijk flanked the back row like sentinels. Özil and Cazorla leaned forward in the middle, pens already twirling between fingers. Even Alexis, who usually couldn't sit still for more than two minutes, looked locked in.

Francesco took his seat near the front, nodding to Wenger as the manager stepped forward with the remote in hand.

The screen came to life.

A clean tactical graphic bloomed across the monitor — red and white jerseys lined up against Bayern Munich's blue and navy. At first glance, it was almost symmetrical. But as Wenger clicked through the slides, the complexity emerged like layers in a painting.

"This is what we expect," he said, his French accent crisp, eyes sweeping across the room. "Guardiola's typical structure. 4-3-3. But you all know — it is not just formation. It is philosophy."

Click.

The lineup appeared.

"Neuer in goal," Wenger began. "Sweeper-keeper. You know this. He will play almost as a third center-back in buildup. That gives them numerical superiority in the first phase. We press incorrectly, and he finds the free man — always."

The defenders lit up on screen, four dots marked with names that needed no introduction.

"Bernat on the left. Lahm on the right. But pay attention — Alaba is not just a left-back anymore. Guardiola trusts him centrally. So when they rotate in buildup, Alaba will drift into midfield. Sometimes they form a three with Alonso deep, sometimes even a two, with Boateng pushing forward. Lahm inverts often — he's another midfielder in disguise."

Francesco scribbled notes beside a pre-drawn sketch of Bayern's shape. He already knew most of it, but hearing it laid out again gave clarity. Gave structure.

Wenger continued, now stepping to the whiteboard and drawing over the graphic with a red marker.

"Alonso is the fulcrum. If we let him dictate, we suffer. Vidal and Alcântara… aggressive, mobile, technical. Alcântara especially — if you allow him time, he will pick you apart."

The video shifted again, showing clips of Thiago pivoting past markers, gliding into half-spaces before releasing runners behind the defensive line.

Walcott let out a low whistle. "He moves like a dancer."

Francesco leaned in. "That's why we don't dance with him. We crowd him. Body-to-body."

Wenger nodded in silent agreement.

Then came the front three.

"Douglas Costa," the manager said, highlighting the left wing. "Speed, skill, directness. He will try to isolate one-on-one — especially against Bellerín. Hector, you must not dive in. Show him the line, but don't give him space to cross or cut in."

Héctor nodded, jaw tight.

"Müller on the right. Not a true winger. He will drift, ghost into spaces no one sees. He will pull our shape. We must track him."

Click.

"Then, Lewandowski."

A video montage played — the Polish striker scoring from angles that defied logic. One-touch finishes. Bullet headers. Late runs between defenders.

"No lapses," Wenger said quietly, as if to himself. "No gaps. He punishes everything."

Francesco's gaze narrowed. He didn't need to be told how lethal Lewandowski was. He'd watched him tear teams apart in seconds. But that also meant he had studied him — movements, habits, preferences. He didn't press often. Preferred to lurk. But when he moved, it was with explosive purpose.

Wenger stepped back from the monitor now, letting the images settle in everyone's mind.

"Bayern are not perfect," he said. "But they are close. They control tempo. They punish sloppiness. They will press us high. They will look to break us mentally before physically."

He turned, fixing his eyes on Francesco.

"But we have our own tools."

Click.

The screen switched to Arsenal's own 4-2-3-1 formation.

"Kanté and Santi," he gestured to the midfield pivot, "you will need to be the shield and the sword. Cover for Mesut when he drifts, plug the channels, and move the ball with speed."

"Francesco," Wenger said, walking toward him now, "you lead the press. When the moment is right, you trigger it. But not one second early, not one second late. You read Neuer's positioning. If he overcommits, we press in threes."

Francesco nodded, his mind already mapping it out. They'd use angled traps. Force the ball toward Boateng and then collapse. Isolate Neuer's outlet lanes. If done well, it would cut Bayern's head off before they reached midfield.

"Alexis," Wenger said next, "you attack Boateng's blindside. Every time he steps forward, you're in behind. Use your aggression."

Alexis smirked and flexed his shoulders. "Like a pit bull, boss."

Laughter eased the tension for a moment, but it quickly faded. Everyone knew what was coming.

"Virgil and Laurent," Wenger continued, turning to the center-backs, "you will be under siege at times. Especially if Lahm and Costa combine down the right. You must not get pulled apart. Compactness is everything."

Click.

The next screen showed potential matchups. 1v1s. Zones to exploit.

"If they push high, we hit them behind," Wenger said. "Mesut, look for those early balls into Francesco and Theo. One or two chances — that's all we need to change the game."

The session wound down over the next half hour with detailed walkthroughs of Bayern's pressing lanes, how to create overloads on the wings, and contingency plans if the Germans switched to a back three.

When it was done, Wenger turned off the monitor and folded his arms.

"I don't want fear," he said, eyes scanning each face. "I want precision. I want bravery. We're at the Emirates. This is our house. And for all their trophies, all their machines and mechanisms — they are still human."

There was a silence. Not out of doubt, but absorption.

Then Francesco stood.

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.

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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