The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco and Arsenal are continue their superb unbeaten run with defeating Liverpool, as they take their sword to push forward on winning the Premier League Title.

The rhythm of the wheels on the road wasn't loud, not really—but on mornings like this, it seemed louder. More distinct. Like the bus itself was humming with anticipation, the engine a slow, patient pulse beneath their feet.

Francesco sat two rows behind the coaching staff, headphones on but no music playing, just the soft muffled quiet they gave him when the world was too full of noise. The sky outside was low and gray, a typical London overcast, where the light diffused over everything and made the glassy streets seem painted in watercolors. His reflection was faint in the window—cheek pressed into his knuckles, eyes half-lidded but alert.

Two days had passed since Anfield.

Just two.

And yet it already felt distant, like a dream wrapped in noise and adrenaline. The win, the roar, the exhaustion—especially the exhaustion. He'd felt it in every step of recovery training the day after. He'd felt it when he laid in bed that night, limbs sore, mind still playing fragments of the game like a flickering reel. The way Benteke had loomed. The way Allen's volley had cut through the night air. The weight of chasing down that last cross, of clinging to shape, of not folding under the sheer bloody noise of it all.

But now? Now it was time again.

Third round of the FA Cup.

Sunderland.

Wenger hadn't said much on the ride over. But he hadn't needed to. The team knew. They'd fought hard at Anfield. They'd earned the right to rotate. But not to rest. Not completely.

The FA Cup was sacred here.

For many of them—especially the British core—this wasn't just a tournament. It was the tournament. Ramsey still talked about his cup-final winner like it had happened a month ago. Walcott smiled whenever the FA Cup was brought up, as if it still lingered under his skin like a childhood tattoo. Even the foreign lads respected it—Koscielny, Mertesacker, even Kanté despite his quiet nature. And for Francesco?

It was another front. Another stage. Another chance to carve his name deeper into this season's story.

The Emirates loomed into view now, sleek and modern even beneath the flat January light. The bus pulled around to the tunnel entrance, and slowly, players began rising—one by one, pulling on coats, slinging bags over shoulders, stretching out stiff legs. Chatter buzzed lightly through the aisle: Wilshere joking with Iwobi, Monreal rubbing his neck and muttering something in Spanish to Cazorla, who chuckled softly.

Francesco stood, rolling his neck once, then gave a small stretch that sent a wave of tension through his shoulders and spine. He felt ready. Or at least, he would be by the time warmups started. The soreness was still there—of course it was—but it was the kind of soreness that reminded you you'd done something real. Something meaningful.

Down the steps, into the tunnel.

The Emirates smelled the same as always—fresh grass, a trace of paint, that faint industrial tang of the ventilation systems. But there was something in the air, too. A kind of quiet expectancy. Even for a third-round tie, even against a lower-table side like Sunderland, there was that sense of theater. The curtain would rise soon. They had to be ready.

In the dressing room, their kits were already laid out—names gleaming on red backs, socks neatly folded, boots polished. The training gear hung nearby: black and red warmup tops, long sleeves to keep the chill out. Francesco found his spot—number 9 stitched cleanly into the fabric—and sat down. He didn't move right away. Just looked at it for a moment. That familiar ritual.

Then he peeled off his track pants, changed into the kit, and tied his laces tight.

"Let's go then," said Ramsey, clapping his hands once.

Out into the corridor.

The walk from the dressing room to the pitch always felt longer than it actually was. Something about those few seconds—the narrow tunnel, the murmur of staff, the sudden brightness as the door opened to the pitchside world—it stretched time. As if the air itself thickened with expectation.

The stadium wasn't full yet, but a good number of fans had already taken their seats. The stewards were in place. The groundskeepers had already finished their work. The pitch, as ever, looked immaculate—every blade of grass trimmed to perfection, the lines stark and white against the green.

Warmups began with the usual rhythm: jogging lines, short sprints, lateral shuffles. Francesco moved with ease now, legs loosening, lungs opening up with every breath. His body remembered the routine. It remembered how to prepare.

Steve Bould led the dynamic stretches. Shouts of "Up! Down! Twist! Again!" echoed faintly over the speakers, which were beginning to pump light ambient music through the stadium system. The fans trickling in could see them now—Arsenal's starting XI and reserves all moving in sync, a flash of red and white under the muted January sky.

Then came the ball work.

Francesco loved this part.

The passes began soft, crisp. Touch and move. Then quicker. One-touch. Short triangles. He rotated with Chamberlain and Iwobi, the three of them weaving patterns like kids at recess, laughing between drills but never slacking.

Wenger, arms crossed near the halfway line, watched it all quietly. He rarely interrupted warmups, but everyone could feel his gaze. Focused. Always thinking.

"Francesco!" called Bould. "Finishing drill. You're up."

He jogged over to the side grid where they'd set up a mini net, a cone, and a coach feeding balls from different angles. One touch, shoot. Two touches, shoot. Quick turn, shoot. They didn't need power—just precision. Just that click of the boot against ball that felt clean and right.

Francesco buried one in the corner. Then another.

His third flew over.

He grimaced.

"No one saw that," said Ox with a grin.

Francesco chuckled. "Liar."

"Definitely saw that," added Wilshere from a few yards away.

The banter helped. It always did.

Then, the last round—small-sided game, six vs. six. Tight space, quick touches, high tempo. Francesco feinted past Arteta once, then backheeled it into Iwobi's path, who curled it bottom corner. The laugh from the bench was audible.

"Save that for the match," Wenger called, with just a trace of a smile.

Warmups wound down shortly after. They jogged once more across the pitch, waving toward the stands where the early arrivals clapped politely. Then, back down the tunnel.

Inside the dressing room, the match kits were waiting.

Francesco peeled off his training top, heart still steady but rising now—he could feel the match approaching in his veins. That slow coiling of nerves and adrenaline, the sharpening of awareness.

Wenger began the talk.

Simple. Direct.

"Respect them, but dictate. Control the ball, dictate the game. Use your advantage—your pace, your sharpness. But do not underestimate their spirit. They will come here with nothing to lose. That makes them dangerous."

He looked around the room.

"Play quickly. But above all, play for each other."

The lineup was confirmed.

Giroud would start, leading the line in a slightly altered 4-2-3-1, with Iwobi just behind and Chamberlain and Joel Campbell on the flanks. Arteta and Flamini as the midfield base. Gibbs at left-back, Debuchy on the right. Gabriel and Mertesacker who became captain at center-back. Ospina in goal.

Then Wenger said, with that same calm clarity that always seemed to cut through noise like a scalpel, "Substitutes: Petr, Nacho, Héctor, Calum, Aaron, Francesco, and Chris."

The names echoed for a moment in the dressing room—seven players, each with a different pulse of anticipation firing through them. Some, like Cech and Monreal, veterans, their faces unreadable behind layers of experience. Others, like Francesco and Chris Willock, younger, wired with a different kind of current. Ready, but waiting.

Wenger's eyes flicked to Francesco for just a second as he said his name. A glance, but one that carried more than words ever could. Francesco nodded in return, the smallest gesture, but it felt like a handshake across a battlefield.

The starting eleven stood. Zippers slid, boots clacked faintly against tile. Giroud cracked his neck with a soft grunt. Iwobi tugged once at his sleeve. Flamini thumped Arteta's back. The routine of professionals, but beneath it, Francesco could feel the quiet war drums starting to beat. This was Sunderland. A cup tie. Not glamorous, maybe, but sacred ground.

As the starters filed out through the tunnel, boots tapping in rhythm, tunnel light catching on red fabric, the substitutes began peeling off to the right—down the hallway toward the bench area, away from the spotlight. For now.

Francesco followed the others in silence, boots echoing in the concrete hall. The atmosphere was beginning to build already. Above them, muffled roars and chants from early fans rumbled down like distant thunder. The Emirates was waking up, stretching its arms, shaking the frost from its steel bones.

The substitutes' bench was tucked beneath a sleek awning at pitch level. Heated seats. Lined in black and red. A row of tactical observers and latent game-changers. Francesco slid into one near the center, next to Ramsey and Chris Willock. Nacho sat to his right, crossing his legs like he'd done this a thousand times before. Petr Cech took the far end, a mountain of calm in his dark goalkeeper's top, fingers already tapping at the armrest as he scanned the far end of the pitch.

Francesco exhaled slowly.

From here, the view was different. Not quite detached—but a step removed. A spectator, but not really. A soldier not yet called forward. He leaned back slightly, watching as the players took their final positions in the tunnel, television cameras gliding silently past them like steel dragonflies.

Ramsey nudged him with an elbow. "You reckon we'll get a run?"

Francesco smirked faintly, eyes still on the pitch. "Depends if we finish the job early."

"Or if we mess it up," Chris Willock added with a nervous grin.

"Don't say that," Nacho muttered, deadpan, though a glint of amusement sat just behind his eyes.

The anthem of the Emirates sounded faintly over the speakers now—"The Wonder of You"—rising with the crowd as the teams began to emerge from the tunnel. A gentle roar rolled across the stands like a tide, not quite deafening, but deep. Familiar. Sacred.

Francesco watched it all unfold with quiet reverence. The players walking out in two lines, red and white of Arsenal beside the dark navy of Sunderland. The ripple of scarves being lifted in unison. The flash of cameras from the upper tiers. The energy wasn't as feverish as Anfield—but it didn't have to be. This was their ground. Their script.

As the whistle blew to start, the match began not with chaos, but with caution.

Sunderland came out rigid, lines tight, banks of four with little interest in committing numbers forward. Arsenal dominated possession from the first whistle, but space was hard to come by. Giroud battled against markers like a man pushing through mud. Joel Campbell buzzed down the right, tricky feet dancing, but the end product kept catching in the web of bodies.

Flamini barked instructions. Arteta moved like a metronome, keeping rhythm.

And Francesco sat, hood pulled up now over his warm-up jacket, watching.

Ten minutes in. Then twenty.

The bench shifted, murmured. Ramsey leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.

Chris tapped Francesco's arm. "Cold?"

He hadn't realized he was rubbing his hands.

"A little," he admitted. "More restless than cold."

The truth was, watching always made it worse. Playing, your mind locked into the motion, the moments. Watching, it raced. Analyzed. Imagined. He tracked Iwobi's movement between the lines, Chamberlain's hesitations at the edge of the box, Campbell's dribbles that never quite carved the space they promised.

Then—thirty-two minutes in—Arsenal broke through.

Campbell, cutting inside from the right, played a quick one-two with Arteta before lifting a deft ball over the top. Iwobi ghosted in behind, chesting it down with a soft touch and squaring it low across the box.

Giroud didn't even need to break stride. One touch. Bottom corner.

1–0.

The Emirates rose—not with a deafening roar, but a satisfied, roaring approval. The kind of cheer that carried both joy and relief.

Francesco clapped quietly, smiling as Giroud peeled away toward the corner flag, arms out, Iwobi leaping on his back.

"You think that'll open the floodgates?" Ramsey asked.

"Could," said Nacho. "But Sunderland still defending with ten."

The Emirates had just begun to exhale.

That 1–0, that goal from Giroud—it hadn't just opened the scoreline, it had cracked the tension, like sunlight breaking through the long grey ceiling of January. The kind of moment that made everything feel like it was going to plan.

But football—football doesn't do "to plan." Not really. Not for long.

Francesco had just leaned back into his seat, warm-up jacket zipped to the chin, arms crossed loosely. Ramsey had muttered something about how now they could manage the tempo, and Chris Willock had asked—half-joking—if they should start stretching soon.

Then it happened.

Minute 37. The kind of moment that felt slow and sudden at once.

It started with nothing. A sloppy pass in midfield. Flamini trying to switch play and misjudging the weight. The ball cut through the damp air, skipping once on the grass before being snapped up by a Sunderland midfielder like a bone tossed to a starving dog.

Cattermole—typical terrier energy—pounced and sent it wide to Van Aanholt, who surged forward before squaring it centrally, just outside the box.

That's where Jeremain Lens was waiting.

Francesco saw the shape of it before it fully formed. The ball curling in. The space. The angle. Gabriel slightly off-balance, Mertesacker just a half-step too deep. And Lens—arms out, posture calm—took one touch to kill the pass, another to open up the angle.

Then came the strike.

It wasn't a thunderbolt. Not one of those screamers that made the net snap like a drumskin. No, it was cleaner than that. Crueler.

It arced like a knife through the damp air, cutting past Petr Cech at the near post before anyone had really accepted what was happening.

The net bulged.

1–1.

A hush swept over the Emirates like a gasp held in too long. Then it wasn't quiet—it was rustling. Restless. That uneasy murmur of thousands of fans readjusting their expectations in real time.

Francesco's stomach sank just a little.

"Damn," Ramsey muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Didn't even look like danger."

Nacho uncrossed his legs, sat forward now. "That's the thing about games like this."

Francesco didn't speak. He was watching Cech walk back into position, head shaking once. Flamini crouched at the edge of the box, hands on knees, muttering something angry in French. Lens jogged away, doing that subdued celebration players sometimes offer when they know they've just yanked the entire rhythm of a match out of orbit.

And it had worked.

Sunderland's bench clapped. Their travelling supporters, tucked into that far northeast corner of the Emirates, roared as if they'd just won the damn cup already.

Chris Willock leaned over, voice low. "Bet the gaffer's not happy."

No. He wouldn't be. Wenger rarely ranted—but you didn't need raised voices to know when he was displeased. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes followed a moment too long after a bad pass, a bad press, a bad decision.

Francesco leaned forward now, too, elbows on knees. Watching.

The remainder of the half was cautious again. But not calm.

Arsenal tried to respond immediately. Campbell and Iwobi both made aggressive sprints down their flanks, Flamini barking and pointing, Arteta slowing things down in the center—but Sunderland had pulled their lines even deeper. They'd drawn blood and now wrapped themselves in armor.

Frustration began to bubble on the pitch.

A chipped through ball by Arteta went just long, bouncing tamely into the keeper's gloves. Giroud threw his hands up. Oxlade-Chamberlain misread a one-two with Campbell and scuffed the return pass out for a throw. And the Emirates murmured again—that kind of collective exhale that wasn't quite a groan, but close.

Then halftime.

The whistle blew. Players trudged toward the tunnel. No applause. Just a low tide of tension settling in.

Francesco stood up along with the rest of the bench, and together they filed down the tunnel, following the team into the dressing room.

Inside, the atmosphere was quiet at first. The kind of silence filled by the scrape of boots, the soft hiss of water bottles being uncapped, the distant hum of the stadium still alive above them.

Wenger stood at the tactics board. Arms crossed. Not speaking yet. Waiting.

Flamini sat hard on the bench, breathing heavily, his head hanging forward. Campbell kicked off his boots, frustrated. Arteta had already found a seat beside Koscielny and was talking low and quick in Spanish, outlining adjustments.

Wenger finally spoke.

Not loudly. Not angrily.

But his voice was steady. Cut from ice.

"The first mistake," he said, "is to forget what we're playing for. That was not a tactical issue. That was focus."

He gestured toward the board where the name "Lens" had been written, circled once in red.

"You give a player like him that kind of room, that kind of time, and you pay for it. We paid."

No one interrupted.

"But we can fix this. We dominate possession, yes—but possession without penetration, without directness, is just… statistics."

He turned to Giroud.

"Drop deeper on the transition. Pull their line apart."

To Chamberlain and Iwobi: "Wider. Flatten their shape. Stop letting their fullbacks squeeze in."

To Arteta and Flamini: "One holds, one presses. No more switching unless it's forced. Make it simple."

Then, finally, his eyes landed on Francesco.

"You'll be needed," he said simply. "Be sharp."

Francesco nodded once.

There was no firework in his chest at those words. No jolt of adrenaline. Just a slow, heavy settling of purpose.

He didn't need to prove anything. Not to Wenger. Not to anyone. But still… he wanted to. Every player wanted to be the change in a match like this. Every player wanted to be the headline that followed a tough first half.

________________________________________________

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: 29

Goal: 43

Assist: 7

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