The King Of Arsenal

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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.

The first fifteen minutes of the second half had felt like trying to push a door that wouldn't budge—pressure without progress. Arsenal were on the front foot, no doubt. Passes were crisper now. Movement more intentional. But for every thrust forward, there was a wall of navy shirts, cleats bristling and eyes locked. Sunderland were digging in, absorbing, daring Arsenal to find something more than just pretty patterns.

Francesco stood near the touchline, coat already off, watching as the game slogged on. His legs were alive with energy—nervous, impatient. He hadn't stopped bouncing on the balls of his feet since the whistle blew for the restart. The kind of tension that felt like a live wire twisting just under the skin.

Wenger hadn't spoken to him yet, but Francesco could feel it coming. The way Steve Bould leaned in to whisper something to the manager. The way the fourth official started fiddling with the substitution board. The way Flamini glanced over at him as if to say, it's your time, kid.

Then it happened.

60:12.

Wenger turned, his voice calm, decisive. "Francesco, Calum, Aaron—ready."

No drama. Just names. Just trust.

Francesco peeled off his training bib and tossed it behind the bench, grabbing a final sip of water from the bottle that Willock handed him. His eyes flicked to the scoreboard: 1–1, the hour mark ticking past in red digits. Every second now was a question. Could they answer?

Campbell jogged off first, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, nodding briefly to Wenger as he passed. Next came Arteta, who had been industrious but blunt down the left side, and finally Walcott—quiet all evening, save for one darting run early in the first half that didn't quite come off.

Francesco stepped over the white line and into the roar.

It wasn't deafening—not yet—but the Emirates recognized the shift. They knew the names. They knew the potential. And when a 17-year-old Golden Boot winner entered the fray in a tense FA Cup battle, it was more than just a substitution. It was a roll of the dice with the promise of a six.

He took up his station on the right wing. Iwobi switched to the left, Ramsey settled into the heart of midfield alongside Chambers, who barked instructions like a field general planting new banners on the map.

Sunderland, meanwhile, made moves of their own.

Lee Cattermole off. John O'Shea off. In their places: Yann M'Vila and Billy Jones. Sam Allardyce wasn't just bunkering. He was rotating the shields. Giving fresh legs to the resistance.

For the first few minutes, Francesco stayed disciplined. Hugging the right touchline, he tracked back when needed, made the overlapping run when Chambers's replacement, Héctor Bellerín, pushed forward. He didn't try to force it. He read the rhythm. Felt the temperature of the match. You don't barge into a tight contest like this with fireworks—you seep in like smoke.

But it didn't take long before he started to change the tone.

Francesco received the ball from Chambers with his back to Billy Jones. A quick turn, a shimmy, and he was past him. Just like that. The Emirates buzzed—not loud, not raucous, but like a building hum. A reminder that something different had just arrived.

He cut in, played a one-two with Giroud, and was almost in behind before a last-ditch tackle from Sebastian Coates swept the ball away. No shot, but a message.

I'm here.

From the bench, Wenger gave a small nod.

From the back, Mertesacker barked something about shape. And from the Sunderland dugout, Allardyce stood with arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek.

The next few minutes were a slow build.

Francesco drifted inside at times, forcing the defenders to shift uncomfortably. Iwobi mirrored him on the opposite side, darting in and out like a firefly. Flamini, now more the metronome than ever, fed Ramsey and Debuchy with sharp diagonal balls. The tempo rose—not frantic, but insistent.

On the 67th minute, Francesco took the ball near the halfway line and began to glide. Not sprint—glide. That long, elegant stride that had become so recognizable. He skipped past one, dropped his shoulder past another, and fed Ramsey with a no-look ball just outside the D. The Welshman shot—low, left-footed. Just wide.

But it was coming.

The game was leaning now. Tilting. You could feel it in the crowd. That anticipatory rise in volume. That shift in weight. Like a wave gathering itself before the break.

Sunderland bunkered even deeper. Now it was a 5-4-1. Van Aanholt barely crossed the halfway line anymore. Fletcher, isolated up front, gestured angrily after yet another long ball sailed over his head.

Francesco could feel the gaps begin to open—not big, not obvious, but there. Slivers of space. Half-seconds of advantage. You don't need much at this level. Just enough.

On the 70th minute, Ramsey snapped a quick pass to Bellerín, who immediately zipped it down the right flank for Francesco. He took it in stride, Jones on his shoulder.

This time, he didn't dance. He drove.

The ball glued to his feet, he knocked it forward with his right, powered into the box with that sudden, violent grace that left defenders scrambling. Jones couldn't keep up. Neither could M'Vila, who came across too late.

Francesco looked up—Giroud at the near post, Iwobi arriving late on the far.

He squared it low, hard. Giroud lunged—

—And Pickford saved.

The keeper had guessed right, threw out a leg, and deflected it wide.

The crowd groaned. So did Giroud, hands to head.

Francesco didn't. He jogged back into position, cheeks puffing once, shoulders steady.

"Keep doing it," Ramsey said, clapping his shoulder. "It's coming."

The murmur of the crowd had turned into a low chant now—half hope, half anticipation. Not quite the full-throated roar of celebration, but the kind of growing chorus that swells when the believers start believing again. It was tension, faith, and hunger knotted together. And in the middle of it, Francesco Lee could feel his pulse syncing with the rhythm of the Emirates.

Then it came.

72:08.

Debuchy intercepted a weak clearance from Billy Jones near the right flank. Instead of thumping it forward aimlessly, the French full-back did something smarter—quieter. He took one touch, then looked up and saw Francesco already moving.

Already reading.

Francesco had been ghosting between the lines all game. Always drifting. Always just where he wasn't supposed to be. This time, it was the space between the Sunderland midfield and defense—the no-man's land most players feared to occupy for long, but where real artists made their mark.

Debuchy didn't hesitate. A clever ball. Not fancy. Not fast. Just enough.

Francesco took it in stride.

The weight was perfect. No need to break stride, no need to adjust. He didn't need to look at the defender trailing him—he could feel Coates's desperation, feel the breath on his shoulder, feel the moment bending.

A quick shift to his left. Then back right. Coates stumbled.

That was all the invitation Francesco needed.

He stepped into the space just inside the box, drew back his right leg, and let fly.

It wasn't a thunderclap. It didn't tear the net or shake the post. But it was precise—angling just beyond Pickford's outstretched fingertips, curling in off the far post and nestling into the side netting like it belonged there from the beginning.

2–1.

The Emirates erupted.

Not a cheer. Not applause. But eruption. Joy uncaged. Every red-and-white scarf lifted like it had been waiting weeks for this one moment. People screamed names they'd never said out loud before. Strangers high-fived and spilled pints. The sound lifted into the night and rattled through the rafters like thunder rolling through steel.

Francesco didn't even break stride. He turned, arms out wide, sprinting toward the corner flag, a smile breaking like sunlight on his face. Bellerín caught him first, wrapping him in a headlock. Ramsey and Giroud followed. Debuchy arrived late, but Francesco made sure to point directly at him.

"That's you," he said, tapping his chest once and then jabbing a thumb back at the fullback. "That's you."

Debuchy grinned and gave a tired nod. "I knew you'd be there."

Up in the technical area, Wenger stood, arms crossed, eyes narrowing into a brief smile. Not giddy. Not flamboyant. Just satisfied. The kind of look a chess master gives when a long-laid trap finally springs into checkmate.

And as they jogged back to the center circle, Francesco's heart was pounding—but not just from the run.

From the moment.

From the realization that he had changed it.

This wasn't just a cameo. Wasn't just a hopeful substitution. He'd bent the story. Wrote a new chapter with his own cleats.

But there was no time to dwell. Sunderland were already reshuffling, and Arsenal were hungry for more.

The goal hadn't just changed the scoreline—it shattered Sunderland's illusion of control. Allardyce's men had held the line well enough until now. But this… this was something different. They looked rattled now. Shaken. Like a boxer suddenly tasting blood from his own mouth.

And Arsenal smelled it.

Three minutes later—75:16—they struck again.

This time, it started from the back. Mertesacker to Flamini, who played it short to Debuchy again, the right-back who had quietly become the architect of Arsenal's second half. He had options ahead—Bellerín making a decoy run, Francesco dragging a man wide—but he spotted something better.

Aaron Ramsey.

Unmarked. Central. Thirty yards out. And asking for it.

Debuchy clipped a pass into him—tight, zippy, waist-height. Ramsey brought it down with one touch, let it bounce once, then stepped into it like he'd been practicing this particular shot all week.

He hit it flush.

The sound alone was different. The kind of sound that echoed with authority—leather meeting ball with that clean, thudding purity that goalkeepers hate hearing behind them.

The ball curved—not wild, but graceful—rising and dipping like it had its own script to follow. Pickford dived, but too late. Too far. Too perfect.

Top corner. Net bulged.

3–1.

This time, even the away end was silent.

Ramsey didn't sprint to celebrate. He strolled. Arms raised slowly, soaking in the roar, the wave, the catharsis. His teammates swarmed him all the same—Flamini leaping onto his back, Iwobi grinning like a kid who just saw his first fireworks show.

Debuchy jogged over too, out of breath, but beaming.

"Two assists in five minutes," Francesco said to him as they jogged back. "You trying to get in the Team of the Week or what?"

Debuchy just winked. "I'm just reminding them I exist."

Wenger turned back to the bench and said something to Steve Bould, who smiled slightly and nodded. The old center-back had seen many nights like this. But even he knew—this one was special.

The tempo didn't drop after the third goal—not from Arsenal. If anything, they started to enjoy themselves. And that's always dangerous for the opposition.

Francesco, now brimming with confidence, began to drift deeper, demanding the ball in tighter spaces, turning with defenders on his back like it was second nature. He nutmegged M'Vila at one point, not even looking smug about it. Just fluid. Like it had always been part of the plan.

Iwobi began dancing down the left, twirling through challenges, looking every bit the future Arsenal fans hoped he'd become.

Ramsey, invigorated by his goal, took command of midfield—spraying passes, directing traffic, even throwing in a Cruyff turn that made the crowd purr.

And then there was Giroud—frustrated earlier, now playing like a man with purpose. Every flick, every hold-up touch, every header was clean. He nearly scored himself in the 80th minute after Francesco sent in a teasing cross from the right, but Pickford made another strong save.

The Emirates Stadium was humming now—like a giant lung filled with song, rising and falling with each touch of the ball. You could feel it in the steel of the rafters, in the vibration under the soles of your boots. The fans weren't just watching anymore. They were in it. Living it.

Francesco Lee, standing near the right wing after that teasing cross to Giroud that nearly added a fourth, wiped his wrist across his brow. The night air was crisp, but under those floodlights, the sweat clung like silk. He glanced at the scoreboard—83 minutes gone—and felt that quiet pull again. The one that told him the story wasn't finished.

They'd already turned the tide. Taken control. Dismantled the nerves of that 1–1 deadlock like it had been some long-forgotten spell. But Francesco wasn't the kind of player to coast on a lead. That wasn't how he was wired.

He looked over and saw Iwobi cutting in from the left again, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with something raw—hunger, maybe. The kid had been electric since the second half started. Not perfect, no. Still raw. But the courage? The willingness to run at defenders with nothing but instinct and joy? That was gold dust.

Francesco knew the look. He'd worn it himself not too long ago. And tonight… tonight, he was going to make sure Iwobi got something real from it.

The ball came back to Flamini, who recycled possession smartly—no fuss, no panic. A quick layoff to Ramsey, who was thriving now in the heart of it all. The Welshman didn't hold onto it for long, just a short push to Arteta, who pivoted and shifted the tempo to the right.

Debuchy again.

It was almost absurd, how central the full-back had become to the rhythm of the second half. He was playing like a man possessed—or at least, like a man who hadn't had this much space or belief in months. One touch, two touches, a fake cross to freeze his marker—then the ball was at Francesco's feet.

The pass wasn't perfect.

But Francesco didn't need perfect. Not tonight.

He adjusted with the first touch—right foot, inside the boot, dragging the ball just enough away from Van Aanholt to carve a pocket of air for himself. It was a small gesture. Subtle. But it bought him everything.

Francesco glanced up—once.

Iwobi was already darting into the channel.

And there it was—the path. Like a seam splitting open at just the right time. He didn't overthink it. Didn't overhit it. He just played it. With feel.

The kind of pass you thread between defenders, not because you're trying to be clever, but because you know it'll find someone who believes in the same story you do.

The ball sliced cleanly through the space behind Coates and Billy Jones—neither of whom were quick enough, mentally or physically, to react. Iwobi burst forward, shoulders hunched, head low like a sprinter on the bend. The ball met him in stride.

It didn't need a touch to settle. Just a decision.

And Alex Iwobi made the right one.

He didn't lash at it. Didn't get overwhelmed by the moment. Instead, he shaped his body, opened his hips like Thierry Henry used to, and guided the ball—cool and sure—into the far corner past Pickford's dive.

A heartbeat of silence followed.

Then the Emirates exploded.

4–1.

Francesco's arms shot into the air before Iwobi had even turned to celebrate. He sprinted after him, laughing, yelling something that was lost in the noise. Iwobi wheeled away toward the corner flag, mouth open in disbelief, hands pressed to his temples like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

He was surrounded in seconds.

Bellerín got there first, hugging him so tight Iwobi nearly lost his footing. Then Ramsey, Flamini, Giroud. Even Mertesacker jogged over from the backline, his long strides exaggerated by the grin on his face.

And behind it all, Francesco slowed to a jog, watching the moment unfold, pride blooming in his chest like a slow, deliberate firework.

Then Iwobi turned and pointed—directly at him.

"You saw me!" he shouted through the chaos, eyes wide. "You saw me!"

Francesco nodded, hands on his hips, breathing heavy, but smiling so wide it hurt. "I always do," he mouthed back.

It wasn't bravado. Wasn't showmanship. It was something quieter. Something real. One of those unspoken bonds that lived in the marrow of teams that worked.

Up on the touchline, Arsène Wenger allowed himself the smallest of smirks. His hands were behind his back now, posture composed, but there was a gleam in his eyes—satisfaction tempered with curiosity. It wasn't just the scoreline. It was the feeling.

This wasn't just a cup win. It was a statement.

The game resumed with Sunderland kicking off again, but the wind had gone from their sails. The urgency was gone, replaced with something brittle. Defeat had sunk in—not just on the scoreboard, but in their eyes, their movement, the way they chased now without belief.

Allardyce stood on the edge of his technical box, arms folded, face locked in a grimace that was equal parts frustration and resignation. He knew it too.

Arsenal, meanwhile, didn't back off. They didn't taunt, didn't showboat, but they didn't coast either. They kept the ball. Moved it with intention. Every touch had purpose. Every pass had breath.

Francesco found himself drifting again—not out of place, but in search of new patterns. It was like playing jazz now. Improvised, reactive, expressive.

He nearly had another assist in the 89th minute—another quick interchange with Ramsey on the edge of the box led to a square ball to Arteta, whose low drive was blocked at the last second by a desperate lunge from Coates.

The applause that followed wasn't just polite appreciation. It was admiration—for the control, for the intelligence, for the spectacle.

And when the fourth official raised the board to signal three minutes of added time, it was greeted with cheers rather than groans.

Nobody wanted this night to end just yet.

Francesco glanced at the clock—92:01.

He stood near the sideline now, catching his breath, watching as the ball cycled from Arteta to Mertesacker to Debuchy and back again. It was the kind of passing sequence that didn't feel forced. It felt like closure.

As the final seconds ticked down, Francesco took a last look around the Emirates.

The stands were still full.

Not one red seat exposed.

Scarves waving. Flags fluttering. A sea of joy and relief and something more—renewed belief. And all of it carried on a current he'd helped spark.

Then came the whistle.

Full-time.

Arsenal 4, Sunderland 1.

The roar wasn't wild. It was warm. Grateful. Satisfied. The kind of sound that wrapped around you like a well-earned blanket.

Francesco exhaled, deeply.

He clapped for the fans. Then for his teammates. Iwobi jogged over, bumping his shoulder lightly. "Thanks, man," he said, quieter now. "For that."

Francesco grinned, arm around his shoulder. "No thanks needed. That's what we do."

They walked off the pitch together, boots crunching lightly over the grass, the world narrowing into a tunnel of celebration behind them.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone held up a cardboard sign hastily scribbled in black marker:

"LEE-Arsenal Now and Future."

Francesco saw it, just for a moment, and something caught in his throat.

Not pride. Not ego.

Hope.

Because nights like this weren't just for goals or assists. They were for building something lasting. Something worth remembering. And tonight, under the lights of the Emirates, Francesco Lee had written himself into another page of that story.

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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: 30

Goal: 44

Assist: 8

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