The King Of Arsenal

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When Wenger left, Francesco leaned back on the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, legs burning, heart calm.

Then the day pass to 12 January 2016, which Francesco and the others are on a plane that filter with low conversation, earbuds, rustling tracksuits, and the occasional clink of a coffee spoon against ceramic. The Arsenal squad had boarded quietly that morning, most still blanketed in the kind of pre-match focus that settled thick around away trips—especially one like this. Liverpool at Anfield. Nothing routine about it.

Francesco sat by the window, hoodie pulled halfway up, watching the clouds unfold like slow-moving cliffs beneath the jet. His right foot tapped an invisible rhythm on the cabin floor, subtle, almost involuntary. It wasn't nerves—not exactly—but there was a tension building in his chest that he'd come to recognize over the past few months. The tension of wanting to perform. Not needing to. Wanting.

Across the aisle, Héctor Bellerín was asleep, his mouth slightly open, hoodie cinched tight like a monk. Two rows up, Mesut was scrolling through something on his phone, earbuds in, one leg propped against the seat in front. Further back, the usual banter floated in from Theo and Ox—quiet today, but present.

Francesco glanced down at his phone.

Leah had texted.

"You in the air yet?"

He typed back.

"Up in the clouds. Landing soon. Feels like a big one."

A pause, then the little typing dots danced.

"It is. But you're bigger. Let the Kop sing. You do your thing."

He smiled. She had a way with words.

The captain's voice came over the speakers a few minutes later, crackling but polite. Descent into Liverpool John Lennon Airport. Cool conditions. Touchdown in fifteen.

Francesco looked out the window again.

And there it was—grey skies, patchy green, the unmistakable sprawl of Merseyside drawing into view. It always looked slightly grim from above, like a city perpetually stuck in winter's grip, but there was something noble in its stubbornness. Something historic.

As they taxied to the gate, the players began to stir—unzipping bags, tossing gum wrappers into the aisle bins, checking phones again. The mood was businesslike. Not tight. Just focused.

They filed off the plane quickly, escorted by a small team of staff. Francesco tugged his black duffel over his shoulder and followed the line down the narrow corridor, into the arrivals area.

Outside, the cold hit them immediately—a wet, biting breeze that cut through coats and stung the ears.

Luggage was handed off efficiently. Arsenal didn't do disarray.

Within minutes, the players were ushered into the waiting team coach, a sleek, black-lined luxury bus with the crest etched into the side. Francesco climbed aboard behind Giroud and Coquelin, who were talking quietly in French, and took his usual seat near the middle—close enough to the front to hear instructions, far enough back to feel part of the squad without being on display.

He dropped his bag beside him and leaned against the window, watching as the streets of Liverpool rolled past.

The bus didn't move fast. City traffic always had a way of slowing time. They passed old stone terraces, scattered pubs already filling with lunchtime drinkers, a couple of kids kicking a half-deflated football against a wall in their school uniforms.

At one stoplight, an old man in a Liverpool scarf noticed the bus and pointed.

Then—cheeky grin—he flipped them a gentle middle finger and kept walking.

Theo laughed from the back. "Friendly up here, aren't they?"

"Hospitality of the north," Arteta said dryly.

The hotel was sleek, modern, but wrapped in the hushed tones of professional football lodging. No bells. No commotion. The kind of place with thick carpets and room service menus tailored for performance nutrition.

Francesco stepped into the lobby and followed the line of players toward the reception, where key cards were distributed in practiced rhythm.

Room 617. Shared with Calum Chambers.

He didn't mind that. Calum was easy to be around—quiet, thoughtful, not one for loud music or late-night Netflix marathons. As they reached their floor and unlocked the room, Francesco took the window bed, tossed his bag onto the chair, and stood for a moment looking out over the city.

The view wasn't glamorous—rooftops, grey sky, a half-visible church steeple in the distance—but it carried the weight of occasion. He could feel it pressing in from beyond the glass.

Behind him, Calum flipped on the kettle.

"You think we'll start?" he asked casually.

Francesco shrugged. "I think the boss hasn't brought us here to watch."

Calum grinned. "Fair."

The next few hours followed a ritual familiar now. Lunch in the hotel dining room—grilled chicken, sweet potatoes, greens, hydration protocols. Then tactical meetings—small rooms, whiteboards, projected clips of Liverpool's press, Firmino's movement, Can's surging runs. Wenger's voice calm, exacting.

"Be brave in possession," he said at one point. "The crowd will test your nerve. Keep the ball moving. Don't get stuck."

Francesco scribbled the phrase in his notebook.

Be brave in possession.

Later, there was downtime—light foam rolling, stretching, music. Francesco lay on his back with his legs up the wall, eyes closed, earbuds in. No music this time. Just quiet. Visualizing.

He saw the pitch. The tunnel. The opening whistle.

He saw space—small at first, then bigger as it opened, like a door being nudged by pressure. He saw himself cutting between lines, playing one-twos, timing the run. He imagined the first touch—clean. The finish—driven. Not always perfect. But clear.

Dinner was quieter than lunch. Focus had settled deeper now. Even Ox wasn't joking much. Alexis spoke with one of the assistants in rapid Spanish. Mesut ate in silence. Francesco chewed slowly, methodically, not really tasting anything.

Afterward, Wenger made rounds to each table. He stopped at theirs briefly.

"You've been training well," he told Francesco.

"Thank you."

"Be intelligent tomorrow. Pick your moments. You don't need to announce yourself. Just exist correctly."

Francesco nodded. He knew exactly what that meant.

Later that night

Back in the room, Francesco sat by the window, phone in hand, scrolling absently.

Leah had sent a photo—a sleepy Polaroid of herself with a mug of tea and a book. No words. Just her smile.

He stared at it for a moment. Then typed:

"Kickoff's at 8. I'll look for you in the sky."

She replied almost instantly.

"You'll find me. You always do."

Calum was already in bed, one arm across his eyes. "Don't stay up too late," he muttered. "You'll need every percent tomorrow."

"I know."

Francesco turned off the light.

Francesco woke just after eight.

Not with a jolt, not in a haze—just a slow, natural emergence from sleep. The kind where your eyes open before your thoughts do. The room was quiet, the light outside their hotel window still grey and overcast, though it had brightened marginally from the night before. There was no alarm. None needed. His body knew what day it was.

Matchday.

For a moment, he just lay there under the covers, listening. To the soft hum of the heater. The muted sound of a car horn somewhere several floors below. The steady breath of Calum still asleep in the other bed, one arm flung over his head like a man warding off dreams. There was a calm to it all. A tension beneath, of course—but it hadn't bloomed yet.

Francesco sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and ran a hand through his hair. The carpet was cold underfoot as he padded to the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. He turned the tap slowly, washed his face, then stared into the mirror for a long moment.

The reflection looking back at him wasn't the boy who'd come up from the academy just a year ago. His face was leaner now. Eyes more focused. The jaw had sharpened. He still wasn't quite used to seeing the captain's band on his arm—or hearing the word "superstar" tossed so casually around him—but there it was, undeniable in the mirror. He looked like someone about to walk into Anfield not to admire it, but to command it.

After the shower—steam-flecked and steadying—he towelled off and changed into his Arsenal tracksuit. It was crisp, clean, and still held that faint scent of the laundry room at Colney. The warm-up gear was simple: red top with white stripes down the sleeves, matching navy trousers, and black Nike trainers. He zipped up halfway, checked his phone, and slipped it into his pocket.

A message from his mum had come in overnight. Just a heart emoji and a picture of the family dog wearing a red Arsenal scarf.

He grinned. Typical.

Downstairs, the hotel dining room had filled with quiet movement—players coming and going in waves, murmuring to each other in little clusters. The smell of oats, toast, eggs, and black coffee mingled with something more sterile—sports gels, vitamin packs, those electrolyte bottles with colors that looked like chemical waste.

Francesco filled a plate with scrambled eggs, a slice of whole wheat toast, some sliced avocado. Simple. Fuel. Across the table, Bellerín spooned yogurt into his mouth without looking up from his phone. Coquelin and Giroud debated music in French. Theo nodded along to something in his earbuds.

Everyone moved like gears in a familiar machine.

"Sleep alright?" Calum asked, finally joining him at the table.

"Yeah. You?"

"Dreamed I forgot my boots," Calum muttered, chewing a banana. "Woke up sweating."

Francesco laughed under his breath. "You probably packed three pairs."

"Four, actually."

Breakfast gave way to another round of downtime—some light stretching in the players' lounge, a few lads playing FIFA on the big screen, a couple more napping with hoods pulled low.

Then came the light training session in the afternoon.

It wasn't intense. No contact. Just jogs, rondos, position drills, a couple of set-piece walkthroughs. Francesco moved with ease—legs light, mind sharp. The coaching staff didn't need to say much. They weren't correcting form today. It was about rhythm, feel, making sure no one tightened up from sitting around too long.

The air outside was still heavy and damp, but the rain hadn't started. Not yet.

Back inside by three, the squad had a rest period. Some players dipped into ice baths. Others lay flat with compression boots up to their thighs. Francesco went for the quiet route—laying on the bed, blackout curtains drawn, an audiobook playing faintly from his phone. Something about mental resilience and the psychology of performance.

He didn't catch every word. Just let it wash over him like a current, smoothing the edges of his nerves.

Then came the shift.

By 5:45 PM, the energy in the hotel began to transform. Quiet changed shape. It wasn't restful anymore—it was charged. Hair was brushed, boots double-checked, bags zipped with a little more force. No one spoke louder than necessary. No jokes now. Just the low thump of footsteps in corridors, the occasional locker click, and the collective tightening of focus.

At 6:30 PM sharp, they filed out of the lobby into the waiting team bus.

It was already dark outside, and the city had begun to shiver under a light drizzle. The coach lights cast everything in silver and blue as Francesco stepped aboard, carrying his matchday bag in one hand and a water bottle in the other. He sat in his usual spot again—second row left, window seat.

Through the condensation-streaked glass, Liverpool passed like a black-and-white photograph come to life. Streets wet and shimmering. Pavements crowded with scarf-clad fans heading toward the red cathedral of Anfield. Police officers on corners. Cars crawling like insects in traffic.

No one on the bus said much.

They didn't need to.

The sight of Anfield looming into view—its old brick walls, its modern expansions, the throng of red-clad faithful already forming outside the gates—said everything.

Francesco inhaled once, slow. His heart beat faster now.

Not fear. Not pressure.

Anticipation.

They stepped off the bus and moved quickly inside.

The dressing room was brightly lit and humming with warmth, jerseys already hung with pristine care, boots lined under each bench. Francesco found his kit easily. His name—LEE—printed crisp and bold above the number 9, with a subtle "C" beside it now. Captain.

He didn't say much as he changed into the warm-up gear. None of them did. Shin pads strapped. Compression sleeves on. Boots laced, re-laced, tightened again. Even the sound of Velcro tearing felt heavier today.

Once ready, they moved as one toward the tunnel.

The pitch opened before them like a promise.

Anfield's floodlights shone down hard, white and pure, catching the drizzle and turning it to mist. The stands were filling fast, flags fluttering, chants already echoing in broken waves.

Francesco jogged out with the others, calves tightening slightly, then loosening again as they moved through their drills. One-touch passing. Shooting lines. Dynamic stretches. The turf was slick but fast—he could feel it in every cut, every pivot.

He looked around once, soaking it all in.

The banners. The buzz. The storm building around them.

Then it was back in.

They peeled off the warm-up gear inside the dressing room. A new smell filled the air now—sweat and muscle rub, leather and anticipation.

Francesco sat down and looked at his match kit.

The red and white. The crest. The armband, resting on the corner of the bench like a question he already knew the answer to.

He slipped it on last.

Wenger entered just as they were nearly all changed.

He didn't raise his voice. He never had to. His presence carried the weight of belief.

"We play with intelligence," he began, stepping into the center of the room. "We play with rhythm. With precision. The crowd will test you. So will the occasion. But we play our game. We trust our identity."

He walked slowly past the line of players.

"4-2-3-1. Petr in goal."

Cech gave a small nod.

"Nacho left. Koscielny and Virgil centre. Héctor right."

The back line stood ready—calm, experienced.

"Ramsey and Kanté as the double pivot. Be aware of the press. Be quick in transition."

Both midfielders gave him serious looks.

"Ozil at the ten. Find space. Play free."

Mesut simply nodded once, already tuned in.

"Francesco on the left."

Wenger turned to him now, and there was something deeper in his eyes.

"You wear the armband tonight. Not to lead with volume, but with clarity. Set the tempo. Inspire by movement."

Francesco gave a small nod, jaw tight. "Yes, boss."

"Theo right. Oli up top."

Giroud cracked his knuckles and exhaled, Theo bouncing slightly in place.

"And the bench: Macey, Chambers, Mertesacker, Gibbs, Arteta, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Joel."

A murmur of understanding. Then Wenger stepped back.

"This team is ready. I have no doubts. But tonight, we must be complete. From front to back. Every pass. Every run. Every moment."

He looked around one last time.

"You know what this is. You've worked too hard to let it slip."

Then he said it—the line that always landed like a final ignition:

"Play with joy."

The room held a second of breathless silence.

Then they stood.

Francesco looked down at his boots. Bright red. Freshly cleaned. He rolled his shoulders once, exhaled.

Then they arrived at the tunnel.

It wasn't a dramatic moment, not in the way movies tend to show it—no roaring music, no slow-motion shots of clenched fists or narrowed eyes. Just footsteps. Steady. Quiet. The kind you hear in a cathedral, not a battlefield. But the energy in that narrow concrete corridor hummed like electricity behind drywall. Thick, invisible, coiled.

The walls were lined with red. This is Anfield, the iconic sign read above them, fixed in its sacred place. Every visitor saw it. Every Liverpool player touched it. And tonight, it loomed like a silent, ancient warning.

Francesco stood near the front of Arsenal's line, armband snug around his left bicep. A quiet pulse ticked under it—not of nerves, but of awareness. Of significance.

The referee team had already arrived, dressed in their black kits with bright neon trim, boots gleaming. And just ahead—Liverpool. Their players stood in a similar line, just a few feet apart. The red kits already radiant beneath the corridor lights. Some shifted in place, others stayed still. Jordan Henderson stood front and center, captain's band around his own arm, jaw set in calm concentration.

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sounds were cleats adjusting against rubberized flooring, the low murmur of stadium staff through earpieces, the distant roar that trembled through the concrete like the growl of some waking creature.

Then the fourth official gave a nod.

"Alright, lads. Let's go."

The players began to move.

The corridor narrowed even more as they turned the last corner, then spilled outward.

And then—Anfield.

The sudden exposure to the lights was like stepping into the heart of a supernova. White brilliance cut through the gentle drizzle. The pitch shimmered beneath it, blades of grass glistening, perfect. The air was thick with mist, banners rippling in the kop end, scarves held high by thousands. The singing had begun long before they stepped out—but now it surged, layered and unrelenting.

"You'll Never Walk Alone" cascaded around them in a wall of harmony and defiance. A thousand voices swelling into something nearly mythic.

Francesco felt it in his sternum. The power of place. Of history. But he didn't flinch.

He walked forward in time with his teammates, and Liverpool's line mirrored them. Shoulders squared. Chins up. No one dragged their feet. The march toward kickoff was a ceremony, and they were all priests in this cathedral of chaos.

They lined up across from each other, side by side.

The handshake came next. A strange ritual, if you thought too long about it—offering civility before war. But there was something about it that grounded the moment. Francesco moved down the line with grace—palm to palm with referee, assistant referees, then Henderson, Firmino, Can, Lallana, Moreno. A brief nod, a squeeze of the hand, a murmured "good luck" here and there. Human moments before the rhythm of adrenaline took hold.

Then came the team photo.

The starters broke into formation without needing to be told—kneeling and standing in the familiar shape, the club crest resting just above every heart. Francesco knelt in the front row, hands on knees, the flash of the photographer's lens catching his gaze just as the camera clicked.

He didn't smile.

Not because he wasn't excited. But because this wasn't the time for softness.

This was Anfield.

And it was time.

As they broke the formation and jogged lightly into position, the referee gestured for captains to come forward. Francesco walked out toward the center circle, Henderson stepping from the opposite side, referee trailing just behind them, coin already out and waiting.

"You call it," the referee said, offering Francesco the shiny side of the coin for inspection.

Francesco nodded. "Heads."

The coin flipped into the misty air—spun once, twice—then landed clean on the referee's palm.

"Heads it is."

Francesco didn't hesitate. "We'll kick off."

Henderson nodded, already jogging back toward his end, no protest, no reaction. Just game face. The same face Francesco knew he wore now too.

Back in position, the teams took their shape on the pitch.

Arsenal in their classic red and white, built in that 4-2-3-1 Wenger had just confirmed. Francesco wide left. Ozil central. Theo hugging the right touchline. Giroud the anchor up top. Kanté and Ramsey behind—engines and shields. At the back, Héctor and Nacho ready to fly when needed, Virgil and Koscielny standing as twin towers of resolve. And Petr Cech, massive and still, hands already in his gloves like he was born with them.

Liverpool mirrored them in their own fluid formation, brimming with pace and vertical danger. You could feel it—how quickly this game could catch fire.

The referee checked both goalkeepers, then raised his whistle.

Francesco stepped over the ball, Giroud beside him.

An exhale.

A nod.

The whistle blew.

Kickoff.

The ball rolled, and Anfield exhaled with it, like a single breath held for hours and finally let go.

Francesco tapped it short to Ramsey, then peeled off left, not full sprint, but enough to stretch. Enough to make Liverpool think.

The game didn't explode instantly. It built. Like a tide rising fast. Liverpool pressed high—as expected. Firmino and Lallana closed the gaps quickly, chasing down every touch like dogs let off leash. But Arsenal were prepared. Ramsey and Kanté moved in sync, pinging passes sideways, backward, forward when the seam allowed. Ozil floated between lines like he'd been poured into space.

And then—third minute—Arsenal struck early.

Not a goal. But a moment.

Francesco picked the ball up near halfway, sent a quick give-and-go with Nacho, and broke past Clyne with a jolt of acceleration that drew gasps. He cut inside, drawing Henderson, flicked a no-look pass into Ozil's path. A shot followed—low, hard—parried by Mignolet just wide.

It wasn't a goal, but it made a point.

We're here. We're sharp. We're not afraid.

The crowd responded with a guttural roar, a combination of approval and threat.

For the next seven minutes, the game turned frantic. End to end. Sprints. Tackles. Second balls won and lost in midfield like lottery tickets. Virgil rose above Benteke with ease on an early aerial challenge. Cech caught a curling shot from Can. Bellerín cleared a dangerous cross just before Lallana could stab it home.

But Arsenal weren't just surviving.

They were playing.

Francesco felt it in his lungs—the fire, the freedom. His touches were clean. Every time he received the ball near the sideline, two defenders pressed, but he handled it. One spin. One feint. A burst. A cutback. Every movement carved deeper into the rhythm of the game.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 17 (2015)

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: 42

Assist: 6

MOTM: 5

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9