If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
By the tenth minute, the Emirates had transformed from stadium to cauldron. Every touch, every pass, every tackle was met with noise. The energy from the stands rolled down in waves, wrapping around every movement.
Then on the 17th minute, it happened.
The kind of moment every defender dreads when facing Lionel Messi.
Messi had just picked the ball up on the right, halfway inside Arsenal's half, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Monreal squared up. Shoulders wide, knees slightly bent—textbook stance. But there's no textbook for Messi. The Argentine dipped his shoulder once, then ghosted left with that gravity-defying shift he had—more glide than step, as though the pitch had given him permission to ignore its friction.
Monreal lunged.
A fraction too late.
His trailing leg caught Messi's ankle—not maliciously, not with force, but enough. Messi's boot skipped off the turf, and he tumbled forward. The Emirates collectively held its breath, then exhaled as Messi rolled once, then sat up, rubbing his shin.
The referee didn't hesitate. Whistle. Arm up. Yellow card.
Monreal didn't argue—he just gave a resigned nod and jogged backward, avoiding eye contact. Francesco caught up with him near the box, giving him a quick clap on the shoulder.
"It's alright," he murmured. "He does that to everyone."
Cech was already shouting.
"Wall! WALL!"
He jabbed his finger toward the far post. "Five! Right there!"
Arsenal scrambled—Koscielny and Van Dijk first, then Ramsey and Walcott. Francesco took his place on the end. The wall arched slightly, like a bowstring being drawn. Ten yards away, Messi stood poised over the ball, left foot planted, eyes narrowed. Neymar stood beside him, hands on hips, whispering something without moving his lips.
Francesco's pulse thumped in his ears.
He could feel it. The tension, the crackle. It was the kind of free kick you practiced defending in training, over and over, but in reality, you were never quite ready. Not when it was these two standing over the ball. Not when you could hear your own heart louder than the crowd.
The referee stepped back. One glance at the wall. One blow of the whistle.
Neymar stepped forward first—left-footed—then veered off at the last second.
It was the decoy.
Messi struck it.
Crisp, rising, bending late.
It curled over the right side of the wall and arrowed toward the top corner. The kind of strike that, from the moment it left his boot, looked destined to find net. Francesco couldn't even turn to watch. He just listened.
A heartbeat. Then the explosive sound of leather smacking leather.
Cech.
The big man had launched himself like a missile—full stretch, fingertips grazing the ball just enough to parry it wide. The Emirates erupted. A save that could've been a goal-of-the-season had it gone in was now a highlight save. And just like that, danger averted.
Francesco gave a shout of triumph and turned to pump a fist in Cech's direction. The keeper raised a thumb, then began barking orders again as Barcelona jogged over to take the corner.
The crowd rose louder now—applauding the save, yes, but also trying to will Arsenal forward. Momentum hung in the air like a pendulum, ready to swing either way.
Barcelona's corner was cleared, and Arsenal broke immediately.
Özil picked it up in his own half, sidestepped Busquets, then found Ramsey, who chipped it forward to Francesco with perfect weight. The counter was on. Francesco took a touch out of his feet, then drove.
He was between the lines now, Mascherano retreating, Piqué angling toward him. On the left, Alexis was already sprinting. On the right, Walcott was calling for it.
Francesco didn't hesitate—he slid it left.
Alexis cut inside on Dani Alves, then went for the early shot—low and hard toward the near post.
Ter Stegen was ready. Diving to his right, he smothered it with both hands, then rolled onto his back to kill the counter's rhythm.
But it was a warning.
Barcelona wouldn't have it all their way tonight.
Not here.
Not under these lights.
What followed was a masterclass in pressure football—from both sides.
Barcelona's famed trio—Messi, Suárez, Neymar—began to circle and sting like wasps, probing for weak points. Suárez backed into Van Dijk repeatedly, looking to roll off him with one touch turns. Neymar shifted flanks twice, trying to find space behind Bellerín and then Monreal. And Messi—Messi just danced. He dropped deeper, then drifted wider, dragging defenders like a puppeteer with invisible strings.
In the 25th minute, they combined beautifully.
Busquets won a second ball in midfield, slipped it to Iniesta, who turned away from Ramsey like he wasn't even there. He played Messi in with a diagonal ball that seemed impossible until it wasn't.
Messi let it run across his body, then chipped it toward the penalty spot—right where Suárez arrived.
Volley.
Blocked.
Van Dijk again.
A tackle more than a block, really—diving in to meet boot with boot.
The ball spun up into the air, and Koscielny headed it clear.
Another roar.
Wenger clapped again from the sideline, pacing like a general on the edge of battle.
Then it was Arsenal's turn.
Kanté broke up play in the center—just a simple interception, but one that created a 3-on-3 immediately. He found Özil, who took one touch and spun forward. Sánchez peeled wide again, but this time Francesco made the run down the middle, charging toward the heart of the Barcelona defense.
Özil saw it and sent a through ball—deliciously timed.
Francesco took it in stride, his first touch immaculate.
Piqué rushed to close, Mascherano shadowing.
Francesco feinted right, then drove left, sliding between them like a thread through a needle.
He was in.
One-on-one.
But Ter Stegen was quick—already off his line, narrowing the angle. Francesco tried to slot it low and to the far post.
The keeper got a foot to it.
The rebound skidded wide, just inches out of reach for the arriving Walcott.
Francesco slammed his fist into the turf, teeth clenched in frustration. So close.
But the crowd applauded louder now.
They saw it.
They believed.
"Keep going!" Ramsey shouted, jogging over. "Keep asking the question!"
Barcelona regrouped. But their rhythm had changed. No longer gliding, now grinding. Even Busquets, so composed, began to play with a touch more urgency.
The next ten minutes were chess at gunpoint.
Possession swung like a pendulum.
Barcelona's triangles hummed, but Arsenal snapped at them like dogs off the leash. Kanté and Ramsey were everywhere—interceptions, tackles, pressing in packs. Özil began to drift deeper, pulling defenders with him, letting Francesco and Alexis burst into the spaces.
In the 34th minute, it was Özil again—slipping past Busquets with a shoulder drop, then threading a pass between Piqué and Mascherano.
Sánchez latched on, drove into the box.
Shot—blocked.
This time by Dani Alves, who celebrated like he'd scored.
Seconds later, Messi was back the other way—twisting Monreal inside out on the edge of the box, then laying it off for Neymar.
Shot—high and wide.
The crowd gasped with every moment. It wasn't just a football match. It was a theatre of inches, of pulses, of artistry and desperation.
By the 40th minute, sweat poured down every back. You could see it darkening shirts, soaking headbands, streaming into eyes. But no one slowed. No one gave an inch.
The trio of Francesco, Özil, and Alexis was beginning to hum.
Each had a different gear—Francesco with his power and timing, Özil with his vision and velvet touch, and Alexis with that raw, manic tenacity. Together, they pulled Barcelona into uncomfortably narrow shapes, forcing Alves and Alba to tuck in, which opened lanes for Bellerín and Monreal to overlap.
In the 42nd minute, Bellerín raced down the flank, whipped in a cross toward the penalty spot.
Francesco leapt.
Met it cleanly.
Header—just over the bar.
He landed on his feet, hands on hips, then turned to look at the scoreboard.
42:38
Still goalless.
Still no margin for error.
Barcelona had one more surge in them before the break.
Messi again.
This time starting from deep—beating two with a slalom run that would've made skiers jealous. He fed Neymar, who squared for Suárez. The Uruguayan tried to turn and shoot in one motion, but Koscielny threw himself in the way.
The shot deflected off his thigh, looped toward the far corner—
Cech scrambled.
Caught it.
Held it.
Another exhale from the crowd.
Another reminder of how fast it could all change.
Then just before halftime, at 44th minutes, the encounter took another intense turn.
Barcelona pressed forward with that familiar precision. Piqué found himself isolated in midfield, scanning for a passing lane. Francesco, hungry and restless after missing two chances, sprinted toward him. Piqué tried to shepherd the ball away—but just as he turned, his studs caught Francesco's ankle in a misjudged tackle.
Francesco went down hard—writhing in obvious pain, clutching his ankle. The stadium gasped. A collective breath suspended in time. The referee blew his whistle immediately—but didn't reach into his pocket. No yellow card. No foul. Arsenal players erupted around the ref. "Yellow!" "That's a foul!" they cried, voices thick with frustration.
Francesco stayed on the grass, constant pain etched across his expression. Wenger's face darkened as he strode across the sidelines and summoned the team doctor. Within seconds, the medical trainer was by Francesco's side, exchanging brief words and checking the ankle.
Wenger watched every second, his composed facade cracking with concern.
The medical trainer applied a numbing spray and gently palpated the joint. Francesco winced, gripping the grass tighter, but after a moment, the trainer nodded to Wenger—he could continue. Francesco took a slow breath, allowing the adrenaline to rush away the immediate sting, then peeled himself upright with support from Ramsey.
As he jogged back into position, tension quivered through the Emirates. The assault of Barcelona pressing hadn't stopped, but now Arsenal sensed opportunity—fuelled not only by resilience, but growing anger.
Then on 45′+1th minute, the tempo suddenly shift as it was started with Özil in midfield, receiving possession under pressure. Busquets loomed. The pass was sideways—but expected. In one motion, Özil shifted his weight, sliding the ball inside to Francesco, who'd repositioned himself in the box's left channel.
Mascherano marked him tightly. But Francesco's eyes locked onto the defense: Mascherano on his right, Piqué dropping back left. He feinted right, then swiftly dragged the ball behind him with the sole of his boot. It was a Cruyff turn—the moment slowed in Francesco's mind.
Moving into the channel beyond, he turned his head and spotted Piqué shifting. He nudged the ball inside his left foot, cut past him, and fired first time with his right.
The ball arched through space.
Ter Stegen dived—but the strike was clinical, piston‑strong yet graceful. It arrowed into the far corner. Goal. The Emirates exploded.
Francesco fell to one knee, exhaling raw emotion. Pain in his ankle, but euphoria in his blood. A warrior's grin across his face. The net rippled. The scoreboard changed.
Now it was there on the board:
Arsenal 1‑0 Barcelona
In that instant, everything shifted.
The fans rose as one. A tidal roar crashed against the stands. Red scarves waved. Shirts were ripped off trembling torsos—celebrated, but immediately hoisted above heads like sacred banners.
He was the captain again—no longer just a goal‑scorer, but the one who sparked something explosive.
Wenger's relief cracked into applause as he leapt from the bench, raising his fist proudly, eyes bright.
Back on the pitch, the team rallied around Francesco—Ramsey draped an arm across his shoulder, while Özil slapped his back. He winced, then smiled. His ankle throbbed—but less than before. Strauss-like, he'd turned pain into power.
As the match headed into halftime, Barcelona regrouped on their own half. Their faces tense. Their posture sharper.
Arsenal, for their part, stood taller. Their belief reinforced.
Three minutes of madness, and now a lead to defend.
The roar of the Emirates hadn't quite faded when the whistle finally blew.
Halftime.
Arsenal 1, Barcelona 0.
Francesco exhaled and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. His lungs were still tight from the adrenaline. His ankle ached with every step. But none of that mattered right now. Not the knock. Not the burning legs. He'd scored. Against Barcelona. In a Champions League knockout match. At the Emirates.
As he jogged toward the tunnel, the applause from the stands followed them. Not just polite clapping—this was thunder. This was belief.
Next to him, Ramsey was muttering something under his breath about Mascherano and the high line, but Francesco barely heard it. His ears still rang from the eruption after his goal. And honestly, his mind was already beginning to shift toward what was coming next.
Because it was coming.
He knew it. They all did.
Barcelona had taken the hit, but they weren't broken. Not yet. That second half… it was going to be a storm.
Inside the tunnel, the clatter of studs on concrete echoed with the intensity of a war march. Players didn't speak much, but glances were exchanged—some sharp, some defiant, some just plain exhausted. Özil rubbed at his temple, still breathing heavily, while Koscielny cracked his knuckles with a sharp pop, eyes narrowed ahead.
As they entered the dressing room, Wenger stood waiting.
He didn't shout. He didn't pace. Not yet.
He waited until they were seated—until water bottles had been tossed around, until the trainers had begun tending to ankles and stretching out tight hamstrings.
Then he started.
"Très bien," Wenger said softly at first, his voice almost too calm for the chaos they'd just emerged from. "That was not luck. That was conviction."
He looked directly at Francesco when he said it, and Francesco nodded once—tight, but grateful.
"You've held them. Pressed them. You've earned that goal. But the second half…" Wenger stepped forward now, voice rising, urgency crackling in the air. "…the second half will be different. They will come at you like a wave. Not one wave. A hundred."
He pointed at the board behind him, where the white magnets representing Barcelona's lineup had already been shifted.
"Iniesta will start to drift left. Watch for that. He wants to overload with Neymar. Busquets will look long—don't get caught flat. And Dani Alves? Jordi Alba? They'll be up in your face before the ball even crosses midfield. We need Santi and Coq to help absorb that pressure. But we cannot sit too deep."
He paused.
"Because we will get one more chance. Maybe two. And when we do—"
Wenger turned to Francesco now. His eyes locked.
"You punish them."
Francesco nodded again, this time more forcefully. He could feel it too. That unspoken energy threading through the room. Every player was leaning in now, shoulders rolling, lips tightening. The usual halftime rhythm—massaging calves, changing shirts, drinking electrolyte mixes—was still happening. But underneath it all was that hum. That war-drum pulse. They were ready.
The final words came like a calm before the storm.
"Play smart. Play brave. Play the Arsenal way."
With that, they rose. Time to go again.
Back on the pitch, the temperature felt five degrees hotter. Not because of the weather—it was still a cold February night in North London—but because the game had just changed.
Barcelona didn't wait.
From the first pass of the second half, it was all teeth. All velocity.
Suárez dropped deeper than before, picking up the ball between Kante and Monreal. He danced through the midfield like a boxer weaving through jabs, quick one-two touches before spinning out wide.
Neymar, deadly as ever, began dragging Bellerín back with every surge forward. His hips moved like a whip, always hinting left before slicing right. Once, twice, three times he beat the first man—and each time Arsenal's back line had to scramble just to hold shape.
Messi floated.
You couldn't mark Messi—not truly. He existed between lines, in the invisible spaces where he gathered momentum like a thundercloud forming. Every time he touched the ball, you could hear the Emirates suck in its breath. A collective flinch.
And then came the shots.
Rakitic in the 48th—an absolute bullet from thirty yards. Cech had to go full stretch, pushing it wide with his fingertips.
In the 50th, it was Iniesta threading a pass between Van Dijk and Koscielny, finding Neymar's run into the box. The Brazilian flicked it with the outside of his foot—but Cech was there again, smothering it low.
Francesco was defending now, jogging all the way back to help on corners, marking Busquets during the second-phase balls. His legs burned. His ankle protested. But his mind… his mind was still sharp.
They had survived the first wave. Barely.
Then came the break.
53rd minute.
Barcelona had just sent seven men forward. Jordi Alba had flung a cross in that Koscielny cleared with a desperate header, and the ball fell straight to Özil in the center circle.
Francesco was still on the halfway line, hands on his hips, when he saw Özil look up.
And that's when he knew.
He didn't think. He ran.
Özil launched the pass like a missile—long, curling, just high enough to beat Dani Alves who was already sprinting back. The ball dropped neatly into the path of Alexis Sánchez, who had timed his run to perfection.
The stadium leaned forward.
Sánchez took one touch to settle, then another to sprint past Alba.
Alves was behind him now, thundering in pursuit, but Alexis was quicker. His boots tore at the grass, breath huffing in rhythm. He neared the box, and glanced once—just once—toward the center.
Francesco was there.
Mascherano and Piqué were both retreating. They saw him. They knew what was coming. But they couldn't stop it.
Sánchez curved the cross like a painter curling his brush. It sailed through the air—high, inviting, with just the right spin.
Francesco didn't wait for it to drop.
He twisted his body mid-stride, his entire form coiling like a spring. Time slowed. You could hear the breath of the crowd, caught somewhere between fear and awe.
Then he launched.
An overhead kick.
His left leg planted. His right leg arced skyward, slicing through the ball with a precision that defied gravity.
It was poetry. No, not poetry—something older, something primal. A moment where instinct and memory and muscle all spoke the same language.
Mascherano froze. Piqué flinched.
Ter Stegen didn't even dive.
The ball thundered into the net, top corner.
Arsenal 2 – 0 Barcelona
Silence. Then eruption.
The Emirates exploded—again—but this was different. This was madness. Shirts flew into the air. Grown men screamed like children. Women cried. Kids jumped on seats. It wasn't just a goal. It was a moment—one that would live forever in the mythos of this club.
Francesco didn't celebrate right away. He landed awkwardly, his ankle jolting under the force of impact. But as soon as he looked up and saw the ball nestled in the back of the net—he let out a roar.
Raw. Primal. Chest-heaving.
Sánchez was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back. Özil came next, arms spread like he was trying to hug the entire stadium. Ramsey arrived screaming, "How the f*ck did you do that?!"
Even Cech came jogging up from his goal, shaking his head in disbelief.
On the sidelines, Wenger's face was frozen between laughter and awe. His hands were raised, but his lips kept moving—half praying, half trying to make sense of it.
The fourth official's board hadn't even gone up yet, but the cameras were already trained on Francesco. The commentators were losing their minds.
"You don't do that to Barcelona!" someone screamed into a mic.
But Francesco had.
He had done it.
He had turned a game. No—a narrative.
High in the press boxes, former legends, pundits, and scouts all exchanged glances. Ian Wright was literally pounding the desk. Thierry Henry, working for French television that night, had stood and just started laughing, shaking his head like he'd seen something divine.
Luiz Enrique stood at the edge of his technical area, arms folded, lips pressed thin. He wasn't screaming. Not yet. But his mind was racing.
This wasn't part of the script.
Barcelona didn't go down 2–0. Not like this. Not in February.
And definitely not from an overhead kick.
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.
________________________________________________
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: 57
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