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His assistant leaned in, whispering suggestions. Substitutions. Shape changes. More direct play. But Enrique's eyes were fixed on Francesco. He didn't say it, but he was thinking it: They have a monster up front.
The atmosphere at the Emirates had reached such an altitude that even the lights seemed to flicker with expectancy. Arsenal had just doubled their advantage; Barcelona's tide may have been temporarily retreated, but there was one certainty: the groove of Barca's football never died—it just waited for its moment.
On the far sideline, Suárez tapped passes into Iniesta, letting the Spanish maestro orchestrate. Iniesta, always that metronome in midfield, took the touch, looked up, and slid the ball across space. Messi drifted toward the box's edge, drawing defenders, and Neymar peeled wide to receive and strike again.
But Arsenal held firm, four disciplined blocks shutting down several advances. Van Dijk and Koscielny were cutting off passing lanes. Ramsey and Kante were intercepting. Sánchez and Özil were ready to break.
It felt like the storm had passed.
It hadn't.
It was just gathering.
Then on the 62nd minute, Busquets who operating deep near the halfway line, received a pass with his back to Arsenal's midfield. He had time. He saw Iniesta moving outside. He played a crisp diagonal ball between Özil and Ramsey.
Iniesta collected, dragged the ball forward with a dancer's poise, and then splits the two midfielders in one deft turn.
Francesco, near the edge of the box, eyes sharp toward the movement, sensed the shift.
Messi and Suárez rotated roles. Neymar tucked inside. Arsenal's shape momentarily twisted.
But then in the 63rd minute, something happened that so quickly, the seconds swallowed one another.
Iniesta found a pocket of daylight and slid the ball toward Neymar, who was already pivoting near the penalty line. Bellerín was beaten—wrong footed, too slow to adjust.
Neymar surged into that lane as though pulled by a magnet, stride stretched, body twisting elegantly. He dribbled past Bellerín with a feint that left the right-back grasping at air.
Inside the box, he slipped a low cross across the six-yard line.
It landed precisely where Messi was arriving—not tracked, not expected. Just present.
Van Dijk lunged. The defender isn't one for errors, but tonight, Messi's timing was impeccable. The Argentine pulled off a sublime fake shot, dragging his plant foot inside, then curled the ball past Cech with his left. It bounced once and nestled in the bottom corner.
Arsenal 2‑1 Barcelona
The scoreboard changed, and the Emirates shifted—a collective heart skip, a breath gone.
There was a fraction of stunned silence. Then disbelief. A swell of applause tinted with anxiety. Arsenal fans realized: they weren't leading comfortably anymore—they were clinging to a one-goal lead against Europe's elite.
In the corner of his eye, Francesco saw teammates' expressions shift—Ramsey hard-eyed, Özil stoic, Bellerín breathing heavy. Wenger rose from the bench, fist clenched, exhaling heavily.
Barcelona didn't celebrate extravagantly. This was not a goal born of euphoria—it was calculated, ruthless, necessary. They'd thrown everything at Arsenal and answered twice. And now they were one away from neutralizing the advantage.
As they reset for kickoff, Messi jogged to the referee, whispering a few words, then gestured at his teammates, rallying them. Barcelona's determination was obvious. Their hunger renewed. Arsenal's task, suddenly, felt miles larger.
In the Arsenal defensive line, Van Dijk and Koscielny whispered a few words, adjusting spacing. Monreal shifted right to cover Neymar's channel. Ramsey clapped his hands, urging Walcott to track back
For Arsenal, the emotional shift was tidal.
Seconds ago, they had soared. Now, shadows of doubt crept in.
But this was Francesco's moment. The pain in his ankle was still singing, but under it all, determination roared.
He jogged toward Özil. Whispered quietly: "Keep going. One more time. We still have it."
Özil nodded, eyes sharpening. Sánchez adjusted his armband. Kante and Ramsey squeezed in tight, forming a quick shield in midfield.
Wenger didn't yell—we all knew better. He just exhaled, massaged his forehead, and gave each player eye contact as they passed him to reset.
Barcelona surged. Messi dropped deeper to pick up possession, pulling the defense forward, letting Luis Suárez and Neymar poke into the space.
Rakitic sent a pass to the right flank—Alves surged high again. Ramsey jogged out to defend. Alves slipped past with a feint. It looked dangerous—but Monreal shut the gap and blocked the cross.
Van Dijk shepherded Suárez wide after a clever flick. Cech punched again, this time from a header attempt at the near post. Koscielny cleared with authority.
From Arsenal's transition, Özil found Bellerín—again flighted crosses into the box—but threatening shape forced Ter Stegen into comfortable gather.
The pattern: Barcelona pressed. Arsenal weathered. And then Arsenal broke.
In the 68th minute, Arsenal chased numbers: Özil fed Ramsey, who slid the ball into space. Sánchez and Francesco exchanged passes. Francesco turned and dribbled into the box, dragging two defenders. He slipped a quick pass to Alexis, but just as Pique slid in and blocked the shot, Francesco picked up the loose ball and squared it—Ramsey slipped, but Kante followed up, shot blocked again.
It wasn't a goal—but it was close. So close.
The stadium roared again as Arsenal played out from the back. Kante intercepted. Özil switched play. Alexis headed down to Francesco, but Piqué stepped across and cleared.
Barcelona had woken—they meant business again.
At the bench, Wenger's gaze shifted from player to player. He scanned Monreal, Bellerín, Van Dijk—checking who needed fresh legs. The challenge: maintain structure while keeping the tempo.
In midfield, Francesco's ankle pulsed with every stride. Every cut and explosion reminded him of the knock. But he had two goals. This was his night. His narrative.
In his head he thought of Leah in the VIP—that small yet immense presence of belief waiting for him. He felt a stitch of anxiety—and purpose. This was bigger than him.
Barcelona began cutting surer passes. Messi switched sides. Alves overlapping again, snapping crosses. Rakitic began to shoot from distance. Suárez dropping between lines causing chaos. Arsenal's reaction had to be immediate.
But there's a beauty to this press: Kante always in support. Özil ready to shield passes. Alexis pressing back defenders. A rhythm forming, not perfect, but solid.
The supporters' songs shifted now—from celebration to encouragement. Claps of "Come on Arsenal!" rose between chants of "Wenger 'til I die." The city outside seemed vibrating through the stands.
Francesco, gasping, breathing heavy, felt every syllable in his bones.
The next few minutes recycled into Barcelona corners. Messi, behind lines, curled an outswinger. Cech extended and pushed it wide. Arsenal cleared, Ramsey surged forward, break looked good—until Busquets clipped Coquelin near halfway. Barcelona restarted play.
Iniesta dinked a pass to Neymar's run. Alexis sprinted back. Monreal covered. Koscielny slid just as the ball reached Suarez—but he scuffed. Cech collected.
Then it happened.
The kind of moment you can only describe by the sound it makes. That collective gasp. That sharp inhale of disbelief when hope slips through your fingers.
It was the 71st minute, and everything Arsenal had built—every line of resistance, every last-ditch clearance, every ounce of tactical discipline—fractured in the span of three seconds.
The ball had pinballed its way back into Arsenal's penalty area following another incisive Barcelona exchange—Rakitic to Alves, Alves to Messi, Messi slipping behind Koscielny with the balletic grace of a man who'd made art out of chaos. And then Van Dijk stepped in.
Not recklessly. Not cruelly. Just a split-second late.
His long stride tried to meet the ball, but Messi got there first. He touched it forward, and Van Dijk's trailing leg clipped him mid-turn. Not a brutal foul. But enough. Enough for Messi to tumble—not theatrically, but genuinely—his balance undone by a brush that most couldn't recover from.
The referee didn't hesitate.
Whistle.
Arm pointed to the spot.
And the Emirates turned inside out.
Some fans screamed in protest. Others held their heads. Cech flung his arms wide, protesting, shouting at the official, but there was no room for argument. The foul had been seen. The decision made.
Van Dijk stood still, shaking his head slowly, arms half-raised, not quite pleading—just stunned. He looked toward Koscielny, who offered only a grim nod in return. That's the risk when you play against greatness: one misstep, and it all unravels.
Messi stood calmly at the spot.
The same Messi who had just danced through their lines. The same Messi who already had a goal.
Now, a penalty—and the chance to tie the game.
Petr Cech didn't blink. He walked up to the penalty spot, standing tall, looming over the Argentine, muttering under his breath. Not to intimidate, not truly—but to get into Messi's head. A whisper here. A step to the side. Arms raised, finger pointing. You could tell—he was trying to make this moment uncomfortable.
But Messi? He didn't even meet his eyes.
When the whistle blew, Messi didn't pause. Didn't wait. He took two smooth steps and chipped the ball—not with power, not with anger. With arrogance. Precision.
A Panenka.
The Emirates gasped again.
Cech had already launched to his left, fully committed. But the ball… it rose slowly. Softly. Like a feather caught on a breeze. It floated over Cech's outstretched body and kissed the center of the net.
Barcelona 2. Arsenal 2.
Lionel Messi had his brace. And silence took over the stadium.
Not the kind of silence that follows defeat—but something colder. Stunned disbelief. The kind that makes you shift uncomfortably in your seat. The kind that whispers: we had it.
On the sidelines, Arsène Wenger clenched his jaw. He didn't scream. He didn't argue. But his expression tightened, the lines on his face seeming deeper now. He turned to the bench.
Two changes.
He signaled for them.
Aaron Ramsey, lungs spent, legs starting to betray him—was the first. The second, Theo Walcott, who had worked tirelessly, running vertical lanes for an hour.
Coming on: Francis Coquelin. And Olivier Giroud.
A reconfiguration was coming. Francesco, who had been Arsenal's tormentor-in-chief in the center, was pushed to the right wing. Giroud up top. Alexis to the left. Özil pulling strings behind them.
As Coquelin jogged on, he clapped hands with Ramsey, who exhaled heavily and slapped Francesco's shoulder on the way off. They both knew—it wasn't over.
And indeed, by the 77th minute, it nearly exploded.
Sánchez had just danced past two defenders on the left, twisting and snapping forward with that electric burst of his. He knocked the ball ahead and was poised to cut inside when Gerard Piqué lunged in.
Hard.
Not malicious, perhaps. But reckless. Too much body, not enough ball. Sánchez's legs were swept, and he crashed to the turf with a grunt.
And suddenly, it was mayhem.
Francesco was the first to sprint over, jaw clenched, fury radiating off him like heat. He shoved Piqué back—not violently, but enough to send a clear message: not tonight.
Bellerín followed, arms raised, shouting. Koscielny barked something in French, advancing fast. Giroud arrived with fists clenched. Even Özil, usually composed, raised his voice.
Barcelona players came too. Dani Alves, arms outstretched. Busquets, playing peacemaker. Suarez shouting something in Spanish none of the Arsenal players cared to translate.
The referee stepped in immediately—hands wide, voice booming.
Francesco, face flushed, had to be held back by Coquelin. He wasn't going to throw a punch, but the anger was real. It wasn't just the tackle—it was the pressure, the narrative tilting away from them again.
Yellow card to Piqué. No hesitation.
Sánchez stayed down longer than usual, curled slightly on his side, grimacing. The medics jogged over, but he waved them off after a moment, gritting his teeth as he got up. The crowd roared for him, desperate to show their belief hadn't wavered.
Francesco walked beside him as they reset. He said nothing, just offered a look. One of solidarity. Of trust.
Back in shape, Arsenal regrouped. The formation now had balance—Coquelin next to Kanté for protection, Özil floating behind Giroud, with Francesco and Alexis wide, ready to strike.
Barcelona sensed the moment too. Their momentum had taken them this far. Now, they wanted blood.
Messi dropped even deeper, practically becoming a third midfielder. Neymar cut inside more often, testing Monreal. Suarez drifted from side to side, looking for an edge.
But Arsenal did not break.
Cech, steady now, punched crosses away with veteran's calm. Van Dijk—despite the penalty—held his line like a man refusing to be haunted. Koscielny, a wall. Bellerín, burning back every time to cover for his earlier mistake.
In the 80th minute, a turning point almost came again.
Barcelona moved the ball in that hypnotic rhythm—one-touch, two-touch, feints and drags. Iniesta to Rakitic. Rakitic out wide to Neymar. Neymar to Messi. Messi, backheel to Suarez.
But Kanté anticipated.
He darted in, toe-poked the ball away, then turned on the spot and launched a counter.
Özil picked it up and burst through the middle.
Francesco sprinted down the right, calling for it.
He got it.
With Piqué backpedaling and Alba trying to catch up, Francesco cut inside, flicked it to Giroud, who laid it back.
One touch.
Francesco curled it toward the far post.
Ter Stegen dived—fully extended.
Saved.
Barely.
But now the Emirates had woken again. The drums of belief beating louder. The crowd roared his name—"LEE! LEE! LEE!"—and Francesco didn't wave or celebrate. He just turned, jaw clenched, sprinted back into position.
They weren't done yet.
And that's how the final minutes played out—not with fear, but fury. Both teams clawing at whatever they had left. Challenges became harder. Passes riskier. Legs heavier.
Wenger paced the sideline with slow, tense strides. Luis Enrique, arms folded, stared blankly at the pitch like a chess master waiting for his final move to bear fruit.
In the 85th, Arsenal surged again—Özil to Sánchez to Francesco, who slipped past Alba and fired a cross. Giroud met it—but headed wide.
In the 88th, Barcelona returned—Messi, alone at the edge of the box, curling one—inches wide of the top corner. Cech frozen, watching it sail past.
And then stoppage time.
Five minutes.
A whistle here. A booking there. Every second now measured in heartbeats.
The clock had expired into stoppage time. Five minutes remained in this gladiatorial duel. Each heartbeat ticked louder, every tackle felt heavier, every breath a battle.
Barcelona, sensing desperation, sent a corner into Arsenal's box. Only four of their players rose to challenge in the air—Messi, Suárez, Busquets, and Rakitic. The rest had dropped to guard against Arsenal's counterattack.
The ball curled toward the far post. Van Dijk, rising above the crowd, met it first—thunder in his leap. He headed it wide, powerful and precise. The Emirates exhaled.
It fell to Mesut Özil just outside the penalty arc. He flicked his heel, then sent a long, harried pass toward the halfway line. Into space. Into belief.
And all at once, the front three became five.
Sánchez and Giroud bolted forward as one. Francesco, wing now turned winger turned creator, sprinted into the channel just behind them.
Özil spotted Francesco's movement before the ball had fully cleared the defender's row. He threaded a low, laser‑straight pass into his path.
Francesco, even with his ankle still screaming, gathered it in stride.
Now, just five players stood between him and infamy.
First: Rakitic. An extended Cruyff flick past two tackles—enough to send him sprawling.
Second: Busquets. A sharp right‑foot jab, leaving Busquets lunging into thin air.
Third: Jordi Alba. Chased across the wing, but Francesco's quick step kept him at arm's length.
Fourth and fifth: Piqué and Mascherano. Francesco steadied, then executed a perfect elastico—right then left—pulling both defenders inside out in one motion.
Ter Stegen, caught between then and now, rushed forward. But Francesco was already rising.
He rocked a fake shot. A second's hesitation. Then caught the ball on the half‑volley.
It steamed past Ter Stegen's scrambling dive, into the bottom corner.
Arsenal 3–2 Barcelona
There was no silence this time—only an eruption. A tidal wave of disbelief, joy, relief, wonder. The Emirates lost its mind.
Francesco planted his right boot into the turf, pumping his fist skyward, face radiant with triumph and clear exhaustion. The flood of fans chanted his name low and ragged but growing with each repetition.
"F‑R‑A‑N‑C‑E‑S‑C‑O!"
His teammates sprinted from midfield, collapsing into him in an overwhelming embrace—Sánchez, Özil, Kante, Coquelin, Bellerín, Van Dijk, Koscielny. Even Cech jogged forward, surprising everyone with a grin wide enough to split his face.
Francesco's celebration briefly paused for him to salute the North Bank, arms outstretched. Then he sprinted toward the away end, shirt ripped to reveal his undershirt, roaring back at the Barcelona fans—defiance incarnate.
High in the press box, pundits were already scribbling summaries: "Hat trick in stoppage time… A moment for the ages… He's recreated Messi's legendary run."
On Barcelona's bench, silence ruled. Luiz Enrique's shoulders sagged. His assistant stared at his clipboard as though it had betrayed him. Messi's jaw worked, eyes dark. He had just witnessed greatness—contested it—and lost.
Barcelona had no time to respond. The referee blew the whistle soon after—sharp, final, delicious.
It wasn't just a win. It was conviction. It was myth. It was a statement.
As the players trudged off, Arsenal carried something in their chest—pride. Exhilaration. The sense that, tonight, they were undefeated.
As the final whistle echoed like a gunshot through the Emirates, Francesco didn't move.
He stood there, alone for a second in the middle of the pitch, his hands on his hips, chest heaving as if the air around him had turned to smoke. Teammates streamed past him—hugging, high-fiving, falling to their knees in joy—but he stayed still, eyes sweeping across the pitch, heart pulsing in his throat.
It wasn't just adrenaline anymore. It was something deeper—something ancient. Like he had tapped into a part of football history that only a few had touched. This wasn't just a win. This was transcendence.
Then, as the waves of noise from the crowd washed over him, he saw Messi.
Still on the edge of the center circle, jersey untucked, hands on his hips, staring not at the scoreboard but at Francesco.
There was no anger in Messi's face. No bitterness. Just a strange, unreadable expression—a kind of quiet reflection, maybe even curiosity.
Francesco walked toward him.
The crowd noticed—gradually, then all at once. The stadium buzzed with that unmistakable tension that comes when two forces meet. The fans didn't cheer now. They watched. Waited.
Francesco, still catching his breath, extended his hand.
"Leo," he said, simply.
Messi didn't hesitate. He took the handshake, then nodded. His expression softened, eyes narrowing not with disdain but something almost like amusement.
"Do you want to exchange?" Francesco asked, breathless.
Messi's lips curled into a small smile. "Sí. Claro."
They swapped shirts—carefully, like passing on heirlooms.
Francesco cradled the number 10 Barcelona jersey like it was woven with gold threads. Messi turned over the red Arsenal shirt in his hands, his eyes scanning the name on the back: LEE. He let the fabric fall open, then looked up at the young man who had just dropped three goals on his team.
"Francesco," Messi said, quieter now, almost conspiratorially, "why don't you join us next season?"
Francesco blinked. He hadn't expected that. Not so directly. Not from the greatest player of this generation.
He chuckled—not dismissively, but with that sheepish surprise of someone asked to dance by royalty.
"Why don't you join us instead?" he replied, smirking.
Messi actually laughed—a rare sound, short and unguarded.
But then his face grew more serious. He stepped a little closer, his voice lower now, private, like this was a moment just for them.
"You played like a monster tonight," Messi said. "You have something… rare. That third goal…" He shook his head. "Not many can do that. Not even now."
Francesco tried to shrug it off, but Messi wasn't done.
"You remind me of… me, once," he said. "And Cristiano. You know, sometimes it's lonely—just the two of us. For too long, football has only talked about Messi and Ronaldo. But we're getting older. This game needs someone who can challenge us. Someone who can take that crown… not just wear it, but fight for it."
Francesco's breath caught. He felt it in his ribs—the gravity of the words. Not flattery. Not showmanship. But a passing of the torch. Or at least… the beginning of it.
"I'm not there yet," Francesco said quietly.
"No," Messi replied. "But you're close. And that's already more than most."
Francesco nodded, swallowing down whatever disbelief was clinging to his throat.
The moment lingered.
They stood there, just two men, two competitors, exchanging not just jerseys but respect. Mutual recognition. One whose legend was already cemented. The other—fresh-faced, still mud-streaked from the night's war—on the cusp of something enormous.
As Francesco turned to walk back toward his celebrating teammates, Messi called out one more thing, in Spanish, the words soft and almost wistful:
"Te espero arriba." I'll wait for you at the top.
Francesco turned back, nodded once, and then jogged away, shirt still tucked under his arm, heart still drumming like war in his chest.
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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: 38
Goal: 58
Assist: 9
MOTM: 6
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9