The King Of Arsenal

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They filed out of the tactical room, minds brimming, bodies still fresh. There was nothing left to do now but trust the work.

The morning of December 21st crept in slow and pale, like a canvas just waiting for color. But Francesco didn't feel sleepy. He hadn't really slept deeply anyway—not out of nerves, not exactly. It was more the way his body thrummed when he knew something big was coming. A game that could tip the league table just before Christmas, that could cement Arsenal not just as contenders, but as favorites.

And it was City.

Always City. The club of money and muscle and expectation. But they were coming to the Emirates now. And Francesco? He wasn't the same kid who had debuted a year ago. He'd grown into something else.

He finished zipping up his charcoal peacoat, threw his Arsenal kit bag over his shoulder, and stepped out into the chilly morning. Frost curled across the corners of the windscreen of his BMW X5, the soft white haze dissipating in the early sun. The engine rumbled to life under his hand like a quiet beast, smooth and familiar.

Leah, still wrapped in a blanket at the door, waved from the threshold of their Richmond home. "Don't forget to breathe," she called, her voice half-yawn.

Francesco grinned. "That's more your job."

She rolled her eyes. "Score one. Or three."

He tapped the roof of the car twice in a mock salute and pulled out of the driveway.

The roads were clear, the air sharp. He drove with the radio off—just the hum of the tires on tarmac and the steady rhythm of breath through his nose. He liked the silence before matchday. It gave him space. Space to visualize the runs he'd make, the angles he'd attack. He thought of Wenger's voice from the tactical room the day before:

"You only need one run. One angle."

By the time he pulled into London Colney, the sky was pale blue with a soft gauze of winter mist still clinging to the grass. The security guard at the gate gave him a cheerful thumbs up. Francesco returned the gesture with a small wave before rolling into the players' lot. He parked beside Walcott's Tesla again, smiled slightly at the familiarity.

Inside, the training facility was already alive with movement.

Players were filing in one by one, some still in beanies and puffer coats, others with bags slung lazily over their shoulders. A few wore headphones, locked into pre-match playlists. Francesco recognized Cazorla's voice immediately down the hallway—loud, bright, teasing someone in Spanish. Likely Bellerín.

He stepped into the dressing room to find the atmosphere electric in its own quiet way. Not rowdy. Not tense. Just… charged.

Ramsey was already tying his boots—more out of habit than necessity—while Alexis leaned back against his locker, chewing gum and scrolling through his phone with those predator's eyes that never really rested. Even when calm, Alexis looked like he was on the verge of sprinting.

"Look who decided to show," Ox teased as Francesco stepped in.

"You're lucky I'm letting you sit next to me," Francesco fired back, tossing his bag onto the bench.

Theo reached over for a fist bump. "Today's the day, mate."

Francesco nodded. "Top of the league if we win."

"We will," Giroud added from the corner, adjusting his scarf like a fashion critic. "They're not ready."

A few staffers began calling out travel cues. The bus was parked and prepped outside—red and gold trim, the Arsenal crest catching sunlight as if it were glowing.

Francesco changed into the team-issued travel tracksuit—dark navy with gold-accented zippers and the club badge over the heart. Clean, understated, and sharp. As he zipped it up, he caught his reflection briefly in the mirror above his locker.

He didn't look nervous.

Just ready.

A little more stubble on the chin. A bit more muscle in the shoulders. But the eyes were the same—focused, hungry, and locked onto something no one else could quite see yet.

One by one, the players made their way out toward the team bus. Francesco followed them through the inner corridors, past the medical suite, past the indoor pitch where a few academy players were warming down.

As he stepped into the sharp winter air, the smell of diesel and damp grass met him, and ahead, the gleaming coach sat waiting. The driver was already aboard, checking his route. Beside the bus stood Arsène Wenger and Steve Bould, arms folded, faces unreadable but calm.

Wenger gave Francesco a small nod as he passed. "All set?"

Francesco nodded. "Perfectly."

The team loaded up quickly. Francesco took his usual seat near the middle—window side, second row from the back. Özil sat across from him, already watching clips on his tablet. Giroud was diagonally behind, wrapped in a scarf and sipping espresso from a travel mug. Ramsey popped in beside Francesco, earbuds hanging around his neck.

"You ever get tired of this part?" Aaron asked as the bus pulled out of the Colney lot.

Francesco shook his head, glancing out the window at the countryside rolling by. "This part? Never. This is where I start seeing it."

"Seeing what?"

"The goal. The pass. The win."

Ramsey smiled. "You're a proper Arsenal lad now."

Francesco looked back out at the grey skies of Hertfordshire, the silhouettes of trees passing like shadow puppets.

"No," he said, voice low. "I always was."

The bus rolled on toward the Emirates.

The team bus rumbled to a soft halt in the shadow of the Emirates Stadium, the late morning light bouncing off the steel curves of the arena like a slow pulse. Francesco looked up from the condensation-frosted window, exhaling once. This was home.

The engine hissed quietly as it shut down. A brief silence hung in the air before the doors hissed open. One by one, the players began to rise, hoisting their bags and stretching stiff legs. The mood was calm, but not lethargic. Just the heavy, grounded silence of professionals who knew the gravity of the day.

Francesco stepped off the coach and into the cool December air, the scent of wet concrete and distant popcorn drifting faintly in from vendors already setting up outside the stadium. He zipped his jacket halfway up against the chill, his breath fogging just slightly in the cold. Inside, fans were already beginning to filter through security gates—jerseys layered over thermals, scarves high on necks, voices ready to erupt.

Security ushered them through the private entrance with quick nods and familiar greetings. Francesco's boots thudded softly on the polished floor as they made their way through the belly of the Emirates. The dressing room doors waited ahead, massive and clean with the golden Arsenal crest glinting above.

Inside, the room was warm and bright. Jerseys already hung neatly above each locker—names bold in white across red, boots polished, water bottles lined like soldiers. Francesco's kit sat exactly as he liked it. Red armband tucked just beneath the collar, captain's mark hidden until it mattered most.

He dropped his bag at his locker and started changing into the training kit—a snug-fitting crimson top with navy sleeves, Arsenal crest over the heart, and black training shorts. As he peeled off his travel top, he heard Wenger's voice behind him.

"Forty-five minutes. Pitches are ready."

That was all he needed.

Out on the pristine Emirates grass, the cold air bit at their cheeks, but it didn't slow them. The sky was high and dull grey, but the lights around the stadium added a clarity to the turf that always made the place feel like a stage. Francesco jogged out with Walcott beside him, glancing up at the massive stands that were slowly beginning to fill. He loved this part—when the crowd was still a low murmur, like the throat clearing before the roar.

Warm-up began sharp. Stretches, side shuffles, passes in tight triangles. Steve Bould barked out a few instructions from the touchline, his voice cutting cleanly across the pitch. Goalkeepers peeled off to the far end for drills with the keeper coach, while the outfielders split into groups. Francesco worked through rondos with Özil, Alexis, Walcott, and Kante—quick feet, one-touch passes, laughter whenever someone got nutmegged.

Giroud miscontrolled a ball and earned a loud whistle from Theo. "That first touch, Oli. You sure you're not still asleep?"

"I'm saving it for the game," he grinned, flicking the ball back with a backheel that was way more stylish than necessary.

As the minutes passed, the pitch felt warmer under their cleats. The rhythm settled in. Francesco drilled crosses from the right wing, curling them into the box for Giroud to nod or volley back. Then they rotated—short passing in the channels, runs from deep. Every touch was sharper than yesterday. It had to be.

By the time the forty-five minutes were up, Francesco felt heat in his muscles, a good sweat on his brow. Not overdone. Just the right ignition.

Back in the dressing room, the tempo changed.

The match kits were waiting—home red with white sleeves, crisp and almost reverent in their perfection. Francesco pulled his over his head slowly, settling into it like a second skin. The fabric was cool, then warm. He adjusted his armband carefully, drawing the elastic over his left bicep and tightening it until it fit just right. He caught his reflection briefly in the mirror behind the kits.

He looked… right. Not calm, not nervous. Just aligned. Balanced between the weight of expectation and the freedom to express.

Wenger stepped to the center of the room as the last players settled into place. He didn't pace. Didn't shout. Just stood tall in that familiar navy coat, his hands loosely clasped.

"This is not just about City," he said, his voice even but firm. "It's about us. We are top of the league but we also need another win to kept us top of the league. You've earned that position—not by accident, but by discipline, intelligence, and courage. I've seen it in you."

He paused, eyes moving slowly from player to player.

"City will come hard. They'll press with aggression. But they're predictable. You know this. We use it. We use our spaces."

He gestured toward the tactics board.

"We go with the 4-2-3-1. Petr in goal."

Cech, silent as always, gave a small nod.

"Nacho, Laurent, Virgil, Hector at the back."

Monreal adjusted his shin pads. Koscielny sat still as a stone. Van Dijk looked like he was already visualizing headers. Bellerín was bouncing his knees, always spring-loaded.

"N'Golo and Aaron deep. Win everything, and be smart when you win it. Transition fast."

Kante, already taping his fingers, simply grunted once in acknowledgment. Ramsey looked to Francesco with a smirk, a private exchange between two players who knew what today would demand.

"Mesut, pull the strings. Find your moments."

Özil lifted his chin slightly but said nothing. His face was always unreadable before kickoff. Some said it was calm; Francesco always thought it was a quiet kind of calculation.

"Wings—Theo on the right. Francesco on the left."

Walcott gave a quick nod and rolled his neck. Francesco just sat upright, focused, hands on knees.

"Olivier up front."

Giroud blew out a breath and flexed his hands. A striker ready for war.

"The bench: David, Per, Gabriel, Mathieu, Ox, Joel, and Alex."

The subs, already in bibs, leaned forward. Some would be needed. Wenger always prepared for that.

"Francesco," Wenger turned to him now, "you lead. Not with words. Not with the armband. With your football. Remind them why they fear us."

Francesco nodded slowly, rising to his feet. The room followed.

One by one, boots thudded onto the tile floor as players rose, fists bumped, laces were double-checked, and shirts were tugged straight. Music thudded faintly outside the room now—pre-match playlists vibrating through the walls. The crowd was swelling.

From the corridor came the call they were waiting for.

"Arsenal. Tunnel."

They filed out in pairs, red and white kits glowing under the tunnel lights. The scent of liniment, cut grass, and tension hit like an old friend. Francesco walked beside Theo, behind Özil and Giroud. Ahead, City's squad was already lining up—sky blue and focused. Aguero. Yaya Touré. De Bruyne. David Silva. All giants in their own way. But Francesco didn't feel dwarfed.

He felt like the storm that was about to crash into them.

The whistle marshal gestured for both teams to line up. Francesco glanced up through the tunnel's end—out onto the Emirates pitch, where the crowd had grown into a wall of color and motion. Red scarves waving, chants beginning to surge from the North Bank. It hit him like it always did—pure adrenaline threaded with something softer. Pride.

The music started. The Premier League anthem. Then the walk.

Out of the tunnel. Onto the grass. Into the fire.

The roar of the crowd rose like a curtain parting on a stage. Francesco felt the energy wash over him, chest swelling with it. He looked up into the VIP Box, somewhere beyond up there, he didn't see Leah—but he felt her. She was watching. Always.

The two teams lined up for the formalities. Handshakes. Team photos. Captains' coin toss. Toure offered a tight nod across the center circle.

Francesco returned it coolly. They had shared battles before. Today would be another.

As the teams broke from the center, Francesco jogged to his position on the left wing, glancing around once to confirm his line—Monreal behind, Özil inside, Giroud ahead. The sun had started to push through the clouds, casting a pale light across the pitch. A good omen? Maybe. But Francesco wasn't thinking in omens.

He was thinking in space.

In seconds.

In strikes.

The referee blew his whistle once. Francesco's shoulders dropped slightly as he exhaled.

Kickoff.

The match had begun.

Then the match started.

The first few seconds were all blur and thud—cleats slamming into grass, voices barking out positions, the weight of nearly 60,000 people packed into the Emirates breathing down on them like the sky itself had thickened.

Manchester City kicked off, and immediately, they showed their intent. Quick passes. Switches of play. Movement from Delph on the left, Silva dropping into pockets, De Bruyne pulling the strings like a puppeteer on caffeine from right side. But Arsenal weren't in the mood to sit and watch. Not today.

Francesco felt the energy zip through his legs, like his body had been waiting all week for this ignition. As soon as the ball came to Özil, he darted into space behind Sagna, shoulder lowered, calling with just a movement of his hand.

Özil saw it.

Of course he did.

The pass zipped in low and hard, skipping across the turf. Francesco didn't stop to think—he touched it forward once, then swung a cross into the box without even looking. He knew where Giroud would be.

Header. Straight at Hart.

First save.

The crowd roared, and Francesco felt that primal rush—that blend of violence and beauty that football could be. A moment later, City stormed back. Toure drove through the middle, pushing Kante off with a forearm, then slipped a ball into Aguero, who spun on Koscielny and shot.

Cech. Down fast. Huge glove. Save number one.

And that was how it went.

The opening thirty minutes weren't just football.

It was war in boots.

Both teams were relentless. A brutal dance, every movement precise, every touch hot enough to blister. No one was backing down. Every second felt like the game could tilt, bend, break wide open.

In the eighth minute, Francesco cut inside again—this time on his weaker foot—and let fly from twenty-five yards. A cannonball through a sea of legs. Joe Hart dove like a man possessed, pushing it wide with his fingertips.

Save two.

Two minutes later, De Bruyne picked out Delph with a switch. Delph burned Bellerín for pace with tricking Bellerin and hit it low to the far post.

Cech. Full stretch. Left hand. Save number two for him.

Ten minutes gone. Four saves. Zero time to breathe.

Francesco looked across the pitch as he jogged back from that play, his lungs burning, sweat already beginning to sting his eyes. And he saw it—the way every player on that field was moving at full tilt. This wasn't December football. This was May football. This was cup final pace. A match that wasn't being played for three points—it was being played to send a message.

By the fifteenth minute, Theo got loose on the right. Özil found him with a blind ball spun over the back line. Walcott sprinted onto it and unleashed a shot across his body. Hart again. Save three. Another corner.

They took it short, Özil finding Francesco near the top of the box. He took it first time. Curling. Dipping.

Hart. Leaping like he had springs in his boots. Save four.

"Bloody hell," Ramsey muttered as they jogged back again. "Is he saving everything today?"

Francesco didn't even answer. His jaw was tight, chest rising and falling. His mind was racing ahead to the next play.

Cech answered the call next. City broke through again in the 19th minute—Aguero one-two with Silva, slashing into the box, and then rifling one from just outside the six-yard area.

Cech got down so fast it was almost unnatural. His palm slammed the ball wide.

Five saves. Already.

And the crowd felt it. The Emirates wasn't humming anymore—it was growling. Buzzing. There was this rising fever, this anticipation that something had to break. Because football couldn't be played at this level without the universe tipping toward someone.

By the 25th minute, the rhythm was insane. Özil was gliding between lines, Kante cutting out everything like a man with a sixth sense. Van Dijk and Koscielny were clearing crosses like clockwork. Francesco could barely hear Wenger on the touchline. All he could hear was the drumming of the crowd and the thudding of the ball.

Then came the 28th minute.

Özil again—ball on a string, twisting past Fernandinho. He turned into space, let the ball roll under his foot, and then flicked it forward to Francesco, who was already sprinting down the left flank.

He took it in stride, didn't slow.

Bacary Sagna closed him down, fast and aggressive, cleats high.

Francesco touched it inside at the last second and Sagna slid past him, grass flying up. There was space now. Not much. But just enough.

He didn't think.

He struck.

The shot screamed toward the top corner.

It was beautiful.

And it was saved.

Hart again—unreal, fingertips nudging it over the bar. The stadium groaned, then applauded. Even Wenger turned to Bould and muttered something that looked a lot like, He's possessed today.

Five saves from Hart. Five from Cech.

Half an hour gone.

Still 0–0.

But no one watching thought it was a boring game.

It was thunder held inside a glass box, seconds away from shattering.

Back in position, Francesco felt the ache start to creep into his legs. But it wasn't fatigue. Not yet. It was pressure. The kind that builds with every missed inch, every second you don't break through.

He could see it in Theo's eyes too. And Özil's. And Ramsey, whose socks were already falling halfway down his calves from the heat of the game. They were all thinking the same thing:

We're getting closer.

We're breaking them.

City kept coming. Silva threaded a ball to Delph again, but this time Bellerín caught him, body to body, and stole it back. The crowd erupted like it was a goal. And maybe in a way, it was. A victory of will.

Francesco checked the scoreboard as the 30th minute ticked over.

Still goalless.

Still madness.

But something was about to give. He could feel it. The way the grass bent under his boots. The way the sun was now finally above the stadium, glinting off Giroud's hair like a spotlight. The way Özil had started smiling—just faintly, but enough.

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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: 25

Goal: 34

Assist: 5

MOTM: 2

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9