The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco, jogging back into shape after another high press, caught a glimpse of Box 17 again through the glass. Even from here, he swore he could see little fists pumping, time to give them something to cheer for.

Then on the 20th minute, the pitch glistened under the muted winter sky, December light muted through high clouds that never quite broke into rain. Breath still steamed in short bursts, a mix of cold and adrenaline, and cleats tore at the turf like scalpels through linen.

Mesut Özil was already gliding forward when Francesco saw the space open. Bournemouth's midfield had overcommitted for a second—a clumsy moment of ambition—leaving a crease just wide enough to punish. Özil barely needed more than that. He ghosted past Arter with a sliver of body feint, Ramsey dragging two defenders inside to create the lane.

Francesco darted.

He didn't shout. Didn't call.

He knew Özil had seen it.

The ball came a breath later—cutting across the field with elegance, curled so perfectly it spun gently into his path, like it had always belonged there.

One touch to control.

Smith was two steps behind, closing fast.

Francesco didn't slow. He dropped a shoulder, then shifted the ball to his right boot and shaped for the shot before the defender could close him down.

Twenty yards out. Tight angle.

But Boruc was leaning slightly near-post.

Francesco struck low and early.

The ball skipped once across the slick grass, bending wickedly on the bounce—then smacked the inside of the far post and spun into the net.

Emirates Stadium erupted.

Not in waves, but in a sudden detonation of noise.

The sound rolled around the ground, a deep-bellied roar that lifted scarves and children's voices and thundered against the rafters.

Francesco didn't run to the corner flag. He didn't throw his hands up or do a dance.

He turned and pointed directly at Özil, chest heaving.

The German jogged toward him, smiling like it was routine—but there was a gleam in his eye, and when they met halfway, Francesco clapped his back hard.

"That one's for the box," he muttered under his breath.

Özil blinked. "What?"

"Box 17."

Then he grinned and turned away.

In the VIP suite high above the West Stand, Margaret clapped her gloved hands together and spun on her heel toward Leah, who had three children practically stacked on top of her.

"He scored! He scored!"

Jamie screamed so loudly it rattled the glass, punching the air with a soft Arsenal bear in one hand and a half-eaten chocolate biscuit in the other.

Leah smiled and leaned closer to the glass, watching as Francesco jogged back into position.

She whispered, mostly to herself, "Good lad."

Seven minutes later, Bournemouth still hadn't recovered.

They looked stunned. Not collapsed, not shattered—but cautious. Deflated just enough. Every one of their clearances had become just a little more frantic, every tackle a little less composed. They were rushing things. Arsenal smelt it.

This time it was Ramsey again, forcing a corner by skipping through Daniels and then toe-poking the ball off Cook's outstretched leg.

Özil went to take it. Francesco jogged to the far side of the penalty area, drawing his man with him, while Giroud, Gabriel, and Mertesacker grouped near the penalty spot. They didn't talk. Didn't gesture.

They knew the routine.

The lines were drawn in motion, not in words.

Özil raised one hand.

Francesco felt the weight shift in the box—defenders leaning forward, twitching shoulders. He saw Mertesacker step back. Gabriel jostled Francis once with his hip.

Then Özil struck it.

It was one of those corners that looked casual—soft, even—but it spun violently in the air, curling in late toward the six-yard box, diving just as Gabriel exploded forward.

No one tracked him.

He rose like a man launched from a springboard, arms up, neck stiff.

The header smacked off his forehead with brutal force, sent the ball crashing into the bottom right corner with such finality it rattled the back stanchion like a shot from a cannon.

2–0.

And the Emirates lost its mind.

This time Francesco let himself shout.

He ran toward Gabriel, arms wide, chest full of fire. Walcott jumped on his back. Özil jogged over, laughing and pointing back toward the flag.

Gabriel punched the badge on his shirt and roared to the sky, his accent thick through gritted teeth: "Vamos, caralho!"

Arsenal had doubled the lead. Efficient. Ruthless.

And Bournemouth didn't know what had hit them.

From the sidelines, Wenger remained composed. His arms folded, jaw tight—but his eyes tracked every move with hawk-like precision. Steve Bould leaned in and muttered something, and Wenger simply nodded.

Inside the stands, fans started singing.

"We love you Arsenal, we do…"

In Box 17, Jamie had both arms in the air like he was celebrating a cup final. Leah had given up trying to get him to sit still. Two girls—Olivia and Sarah—were huddled against the glass now, trying to figure out if Francesco had looked their way again.

Leah smiled, handing out more crisps, half-listening to Margaret answer a boy's question about whether or not players ate chocolate.

Francesco, meanwhile, was walking back into shape with Özil beside him.

"Same move?" Özil asked, a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Francesco nodded. "Let's stretch them until they snap."

"Exactly."

And they meant it.

For the next ten minutes, Arsenal kept their foot on the throat. Not chasing wildly, but dictating the rhythm. Slowing when they chose. Accelerating in sharp triangles when needed. Özil pulling strings. Kante cleaning everything behind. Ramsey shadowing every run.

Francesco drifted inside more now, dragging his marker into central positions and letting Gibbs overlap. Walcott was doing the same opposite him, switching once even for a few minutes as part of a pre-rehearsed overload maneuver.

Bournemouth looked lost.

They were trying. But Arsenal weren't just playing with energy now—they were playing with intelligence. With precision.

The press was sharp. The recovery runs sharper.

By the 35th minute, Francesco had two more shots saved by Boruc—one after a cut inside from Özil, the other off a quick switch from Ramsey. Giroud had narrowly missed a flicked header at the near post.

It could've been 3–0.

Then on the 43rd minute, the Emirates already crackling with the energy of a two-goal cushion, seemed to sway with each pass Arsenal made. Bournemouth, credit to them, hadn't given up. They'd regrouped, reformed their lines, doubled down on their shape—but they were being asked to do too much defending. To cover too much space. And now, they were tired.

Ramsey had just picked Arter's pocket for the third time in the half and offloaded the ball with a simple pass to Kante. A reset. A breath. Kante looked up once, then slid it sideways to Bellerín, who found Özil in the right half-space again—like a conductor retaking the baton after letting the orchestra exhale.

Özil took a step, then turned—light on his feet, light like snowfall—and fed Walcott on the touchline.

"Theo!" someone called from the touchline. Could've been Giroud. Could've been Bould. Could've been a kid in the stands.

Didn't matter. Walcott already knew.

He took one touch. Two. Smith came toward him fast, tired legs desperate. But Walcott turned him inside out with that burst of straight-line pace that never left him, even on his quietest days.

Francesco saw the delivery coming before the ball even left Theo's foot.

He was lurking just inside the area, marked loosely by Francis, who glanced toward Walcott for a split second too long. That was all it took. A heartbeat's hesitation.

Francesco feinted right—Smith and Francis both leaned—and then, as the ball arced in from Walcott, he dipped left, glided into the pocket of space between the center-backs.

The ball came at chest height, quick and driven.

He took it down on his thigh—smooth, controlled, gentle—and before it could bounce, flicked it up just enough to pop over Smith's desperate sliding leg. Francis came across to cover, body low, arms out.

Francesco saw the window. Lower right. Near the ground. Boruc was shifting to his left. Too late.

He shot low and true.

The ball sliced cleanly off his laces, skipped off the turf once, and kissed the back of the net with a ripping snap. The netting bulged and then bounced back like elastic. Boruc spun in place, helpless.

3–0.

It felt like thunder under floodlight.

The Emirates blew apart again—third time in one half—and this time it was more than just joy.

It was awe.

A brace. A performance. A statement.

Francesco didn't sprint toward the corner this time. He slowed. Let the moment soak. He turned with a grin and outstretched arms, face flushed and wild.

Walcott reached him first, slamming both hands into his shoulders. "That was filth, mate. Absolute filth!"

Then came Özil, laughing and shaking his head. "Why do we even bother?"

Francesco only shrugged, grinning, and pointed skyward.

High above, Box 17 looked like it had exploded. Jamie was up on his chair now, both arms waving, cheeks red with excitement. Olivia had leapt into Leah's lap, shrieking. Margaret looked stunned—and maybe a little teary-eyed. Leah just smiled wide and proud, surrounded by the kind of noise that only joy could make.

The team jogged back. Wenger didn't move. He simply nodded once and turned to Bould. No change in expression, but his arms finally unfolded. That was enough.

They didn't let off. Not even after the third.

Gabriel barked at Bellerín to push higher. Ramsey and Kante kept locking the midfield like steel jaws. Özil dropped deeper now, controlling the tempo, letting the fire smolder rather than flare.

The minutes ticked.

Bournemouth tried a long diagonal to the left, hoping to catch Bellerín out. It skipped too far. Gibbs ran it down calmly, took one touch, and passed square to Mertesacker, who spread it to Gabriel. Easy. Controlled. Dominant.

When the fourth official raised his board—"1 minute" in bright green LEDs—the crowd gave a mock groan, half-hoping for more injury time to watch this team.

Arsenal kept the ball.

One more movement: Özil to Francesco again, this time more central. He considered the hat-trick—took a step like he might shoot—but saw Giroud open near the edge of the box and rolled it instead.

Giroud touched it, turned, fired. Wide. But not by much.

Then came the whistle.

⸻

Halftime – Emirates Stadium

The sound was full-bodied and thunderous, like the stadium itself needed to exhale.

Francesco jogged off the pitch, sweat clinging to his neck, his hair damp beneath the thermal headband. The cold bit at his fingers now that the motion had stopped, but he barely noticed. The adrenaline had made him fireproof.

He could feel the weight of the performance behind him—but also the pull of the locker room ahead, the echo of Wenger's voice waiting to carve the next forty-five into clean lines.

As they reached the mouth of the tunnel, fans leaned over the barrier, screaming names.

"Francesco!"

"Lee! Sign this, please!"

"Mate, you're a beast!"

Francesco offered a wave, a small smile, but he kept moving. Head down. Focus tightening.

Walcott gave him a light slap on the back as they walked side by side into the tunnel.

"Two goals and it's not even tea time."

Francesco snorted. "Get me a biscuit in the second half, and I'll try for three."

Theo laughed. "Deal."

Inside the dressing room, the warmth hit them like a wall. Hot air and the scent of vapor rub and wet kit. Bottles of electrolyte drinks lined the counter. Towels tossed. Boots re-tightened. Staff buzzed around them like bees.

Francesco sank onto the bench beside Özil and Gibbs, chest still heaving a little.

Wenger stepped in, clipboard in hand, coat unzipped.

He didn't yell.

He didn't need to.

"Better," he said simply.

Eyes tracked him as he moved toward the tactical board. "Much better."

He tapped three positions on the map. Özil. Kante. Francesco.

"This triangle is what's breaking them. Don't lose it."

A nod toward Theo.

"More of those early crosses. They're backing off now. Don't let them recover."

Then to the defense.

"Don't switch off. They'll come out swinging. You know that. Every team down 3–0 has one ten-minute window of rage. Ride it out. Stay clean."

Then finally, his eyes swept the room.

"You've earned the lead. Now earn the result."

No rousing cry. No cliché. Just direction. Confidence.

Francesco reached for his water bottle, took two long swigs, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. Özil bumped his shoulder gently.

"Hat-trick?"

Francesco didn't look up. Just smiled, eyes still sharp.

"Maybe."

Outside, the crowd hadn't stopped singing.

And above them all, in Box 17, a dozen hearts were still thumping to the rhythm of a boy in red, running toward their joy.

Then on the 43rd minute, the Emirates already crackling with the energy of a two-goal cushion, seemed to sway with each pass Arsenal made. Bournemouth, credit to them, hadn't given up. They'd regrouped, reformed their lines, doubled down on their shape—but they were being asked to do too much defending. To cover too much space. And now, they were tired.

Ramsey had just picked Arter's pocket for the third time in the half and offloaded the ball with a simple pass to Kante. A reset. A breath. Kante looked up once, then slid it sideways to Bellerín, who found Özil in the right half-space again—like a conductor retaking the baton after letting the orchestra exhale.

Özil took a step, then turned—light on his feet, light like snowfall—and fed Walcott on the touchline.

"Theo!" someone called from the touchline. Could've been Giroud. Could've been Bould. Could've been a kid in the stands.

Didn't matter. Walcott already knew.

He took one touch. Two. Smith came toward him fast, tired legs desperate. But Walcott turned him inside out with that burst of straight-line pace that never left him, even on his quietest days.

Francesco saw the delivery coming before the ball even left Theo's foot.

He was lurking just inside the area, marked loosely by Francis, who glanced toward Walcott for a split second too long. That was all it took. A heartbeat's hesitation.

Francesco feinted right—Smith and Francis both leaned—and then, as the ball arced in from Walcott, he dipped left, glided into the pocket of space between the center-backs.

The ball came at chest height, quick and driven.

He took it down on his thigh—smooth, controlled, gentle—and before it could bounce, flicked it up just enough to pop over Smith's desperate sliding leg. Francis came across to cover, body low, arms out.

Francesco saw the window. Lower right. Near the ground. Boruc was shifting to his left. Too late.

He shot low and true.

The ball sliced cleanly off his laces, skipped off the turf once, and kissed the back of the net with a ripping snap. The netting bulged and then bounced back like elastic. Boruc spun in place, helpless.

3–0.

It felt like thunder under floodlight.

The Emirates blew apart again—third time in one half—and this time it was more than just joy.

It was awe.

A brace. A performance. A statement.

Francesco didn't sprint toward the corner this time. He slowed. Let the moment soak. He turned with a grin and outstretched arms, face flushed and wild.

Walcott reached him first, slamming both hands into his shoulders. "That was filth, mate. Absolute filth!"

Then came Özil, laughing and shaking his head. "Why do we even bother?"

Francesco only shrugged, grinning, and pointed skyward.

High above, Box 17 looked like it had exploded. Jamie was up on his chair now, both arms waving, cheeks red with excitement. Olivia had leapt into Leah's lap, shrieking. Margaret looked stunned—and maybe a little teary-eyed. Leah just smiled wide and proud, surrounded by the kind of noise that only joy could make.

The team jogged back. Wenger didn't move. He simply nodded once and turned to Bould. No change in expression, but his arms finally unfolded. That was enough.

They didn't let off. Not even after the third.

Gabriel barked at Bellerín to push higher. Ramsey and Kante kept locking the midfield like steel jaws. Özil dropped deeper now, controlling the tempo, letting the fire smolder rather than flare.

The minutes ticked.

Bournemouth tried a long diagonal to the left, hoping to catch Bellerín out. It skipped too far. Gibbs ran it down calmly, took one touch, and passed square to Mertesacker, who spread it to Gabriel. Easy. Controlled. Dominant.

When the fourth official raised his board—"1 minute" in bright green LEDs—the crowd gave a mock groan, half-hoping for more injury time to watch this team.

Arsenal kept the ball.

One more movement: Özil to Francesco again, this time more central. He considered the hat-trick—took a step like he might shoot—but saw Giroud open near the edge of the box and rolled it instead.

Giroud touched it, turned, fired. Wide. But not by much.

Then came the whistle.

⸻

Halftime – Emirates Stadium

The sound was full-bodied and thunderous, like the stadium itself needed to exhale.

Francesco jogged off the pitch, sweat clinging to his neck, his hair damp beneath the thermal headband. The cold bit at his fingers now that the motion had stopped, but he barely noticed. The adrenaline had made him fireproof.

He could feel the weight of the performance behind him—but also the pull of the locker room ahead, the echo of Wenger's voice waiting to carve the next forty-five into clean lines.

As they reached the mouth of the tunnel, fans leaned over the barrier, screaming names.

"Francesco!"

"Lee! Sign this, please!"

"Mate, you're a beast!"

Francesco offered a wave, a small smile, but he kept moving. Head down. Focus tightening.

Walcott gave him a light slap on the back as they walked side by side into the tunnel.

"Two goals and it's not even tea time."

Francesco snorted. "Get me a biscuit in the second half, and I'll try for three."

Theo laughed. "Deal."

Inside the dressing room, the warmth hit them like a wall. Hot air and the scent of vapor rub and wet kit. Bottles of electrolyte drinks lined the counter. Towels tossed. Boots re-tightened. Staff buzzed around them like bees.

Francesco sank onto the bench beside Özil and Gibbs, chest still heaving a little.

Wenger stepped in, clipboard in hand, coat unzipped.

He didn't yell.

He didn't need to.

"Better," he said simply.

Eyes tracked him as he moved toward the tactical board. "Much better."

He tapped three positions on the map. Özil. Kante. Francesco.

"This triangle is what's breaking them. Don't lose it."

A nod toward Theo.

"More of those early crosses. They're backing off now. Don't let them recover."

Then to the defense.

"Don't switch off. They'll come out swinging. You know that. Every team down 3–0 has one ten-minute window of rage. Ride it out. Stay clean."

Then finally, his eyes swept the room.

"You've earned the lead. Now earn the result."

No rousing cry. No cliché. Just direction. Confidence.

Francesco reached for his water bottle, took two long swigs, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. Özil bumped his shoulder gently.

"Hat-trick?"

Francesco didn't look up. Just smiled, eyes still sharp.

"Maybe."

Outside, the crowd hadn't stopped singing.

And above them all, in Box 17, a dozen hearts were still thumping to the rhythm of a boy in red, running toward their joy.

________________________________________________

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: 28

Goal: 40

Assist: 6

MOTM: 3

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9