If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
She nodded, fingers entwined with his. The TV screen dimmed behind them as they left the living room, the soft hum of the rain and the echo of Ian Wright's praise lingering in the stillness like a lullaby for champions.
The days passed like a drumroll—steady, rising, impossible to ignore.
Each one carried the weight of something inevitable. The kind of stretch in the season when the routine became rhythm and the rhythm became pressure—not from the outside, not even from the fans or the media—but from within. Arsenal weren't just playing well. They were expected to win now. Expected to dominate. Expected to look like champions.
And all of it—every whisper of the unbeaten streak, every pundit wondering about invincibility, every child who pulled on a Francesco Lee jersey and dreamt—was barreling toward one night: Barcelona at the Emirates.
But before they got there, they had to earn the right to dream.
Three matches. Three obstacles. And no room for a slip.
On 7 February 2016 at Vitality Stadium, the wind rolled in off the south coast with that seaside bite—sharp and damp. The kind that nipped at the edges of your collar no matter how tightly it was zipped.
Francesco stood in the tunnel at the Vitality Stadium, bouncing lightly on his toes, gloves already damp from warmups. His breath clouded in front of him, and beside him, Özil rolled his neck like a boxer about to enter the ring.
It wasn't the biggest stadium, not the loudest, but Francesco knew it wouldn't be easy. Bournemouth fought. They scrapped. And with players like Ritchie and King on the counter, they had sting.
But Arsenal didn't just come to survive. They came to assert.
And that's exactly what they did.
By the 23rd minute, Özil had picked a hole through Bournemouth's midfield with surgical grace, sliding into the box like he was skating, then firing low under the keeper to make it 1–0. Barely ten minutes later, Oxlade-Chamberlain rifled one in off the post from the edge of the box, a thunderbolt that made the away end erupt.
Then, in the 76th, it was Francesco's turn.
The ball broke kindly near the halfway line after a sloppy clearance, and suddenly there was daylight. One touch to set, another to push past the chasing centre-back, and then he was off—sprinting, arms pumping, pitch yawning open in front of him.
The keeper came early. Francesco waited a beat, eyes locked, then chipped it.
Soft. Cruel. Perfect.
3–0.
He didn't even celebrate wildly—just turned and jogged back toward the halfway line with that little smile of his. The job was done. No fuss. No theatrics.
Back in the dressing room, Wenger was calm. Controlled.
"Well done," he said, hands behind his back. "But remember… this is just the step before the mountain."
On 14 February 2016 at the Emirates Stadium, on the valentine's day in North London, but the air outside the Emirates was filled with something far more primal than romance: tension. Leicester had shocked everyone this season. Vardy was scoring for fun. Mahrez was dancing through defenders like they were pylons. And Ranieri's men weren't just contenders—they were top of the table.
Arsenal had to win.
The first half was infuriating. Arsenal pressed, passed, and probed—but Leicester were compact, resilient, and ruthless on the break. Then came the moment of dread.
Right before halftime, Vardy burst into the box. Koscielny met him shoulder-to-shoulder. Vardy fell. The ref pointed.
Penalty.
Francesco barely watched as Vardy stepped up. He knew how these moments could swing entire seasons.
The net rippled. 0–1. Emirates groaned.
Wenger didn't yell at halftime. He didn't rant. He stood in the middle of the dressing room, eyes calm but sharp as razors.
"Play with courage," he said. "You don't beat the unexpected with fear. You beat it with belief."
And so they did.
Ten minutes into the second half, Alexis dinked a pass into the box, Özil flicked it one-touch—and Francesco buried it. Clean, clinical, loud.
The Emirates roared.
1–1.
The tide turned.
In the 72nd, Walcott darted in from the right like lightning, latched onto a cross from Bellerín, and smashed home the go-ahead goal. Francesco could feel it in his lungs, in the way the whole stadium seemed to move as one.
And then, in stoppage time—Leicester desperate, pushing high—Arsenal broke again. Kante nicked the ball, Ramsey surged forward, and slipped a beautiful outside-foot pass into space.
Welbeck.
Through.
One touch. Slot past the keeper.
3–1.
Wenger even allowed himself a fist pump.
As the final whistle blew, Francesco felt the weight of the night press off his shoulders. Not just the win. The statement.
Then on 20 February 2016 at the Emirates Stadium for the fifth round of the FA Cup, Hull City didn't come to play. They came to frustrate. They packed the midfield, dropped their lines deep, and dared Arsenal to find a crack.
For 70 minutes, it was like trying to unlock a safe with chopsticks.
But Francesco had learned something this season—not every goal needed to be beautiful. Sometimes, the scruffy ones mattered more.
Özil curled in a corner. Koscielny challenged. The ball bounced. Chaos.
Francesco pounced.
A toe poke. A scramble. A goal.
1–0.
He didn't care how it looked. The Emirates didn't either. They cheered like it was a 30-yard volley.
Because the win meant they were through.
Then on 23 February 2016, the day arrived heavy with anticipation. The kind of day where every breath felt like it had to be earned.
Francesco woke early. Not from an alarm. Just… awake.
The house was still dark. Leah stirred beside him as he rose and padded quietly down to the kitchen. He made coffee without really tasting it. His mind was already somewhere else—walking out of the tunnel, floodlights soaking the pitch, the Barcelona crest just meters away.
By the time he arrived at Colney, the atmosphere was electric. Everyone knew what tonight meant.
Not just a match.
A measuring stick.
The yardstick of greatness.
Barcelona weren't just good—they were Barça. Messi. Neymar. Suárez. Busquets. Iniesta. Even if they didn't always dominate possession anymore, they could kill you with one pass.
The team bus rolled through the narrow roads of North London, wrapped in a kind of silence that wasn't exactly quiet—just contemplative. Inside, there was no joking, no card games, no banter echoing down the aisle. The air was taut. Concentrated. The way it always was before the kind of night that could etch itself into history.
Francesco sat halfway down the aisle, his headphones around his neck instead of on, phone in hand, eyes scanning the glowing screen as messages flickered in and out.
Leah:
Just arrived. It's madness here. I've never seen it like this. So many fans.
Francesco's lips twitched into a soft smile.
Francesco:
Safe in the box?
Leah:
Yep. VIP treatment, remember? I'm watching the players walk in below. Can't believe you're out there tonight. Against Barça.
Francesco:
Same. I'll look for you before kickoff.
She sent back a heart emoji, then another text that just said:
Kick ass.
He tucked the phone into the pocket of his Arsenal coat and turned to look out the window. Outside, the streets were already lit by a sea of red and white. Supporters lined the sidewalks, waving scarves, slapping the Arsenal crest on their chests, holding up hand-painted signs—"BELIEVE IN THE INVINCIBLES AGAIN" and "FRANCESCO, BRING IT HOME".
Some young kids ran alongside the bus, shouting names and waving frantically. One of them had his name on the back of a kit that looked a size too big.
The bus slowed near the Emirates. Francesco turned to catch a glimpse of the stadium—bright, towering, alive. It shimmered under the lights, that massive glowing "ARSENAL" sign rising over the turnstiles like a crown. Something about it looked different tonight. Not in shape or color—but in presence. In gravity.
They were about to host Barcelona.
And not just any version of Barcelona. This was the club in full roar. Messi, Suárez, Neymar. Busquets orchestrating. Iniesta gliding like a ghost in midfield. Piqué towering in the back like a Roman column.
The kind of side that didn't just win—they humiliated.
But Arsenal had something too. They had belief now. They had a league run few could even comprehend—twenty-three wins, one draw, no losses. They had a midfield built on grit and genius. And they had a striker—Francesco—who wasn't just leading the Premier League in goals. He was leading a movement.
When they finally pulled into the private player entrance and the hydraulic doors hissed open, Francesco stepped off behind Koscielny and Cech. The blast of London night air hit him full in the face—cold and sharp. But the roar that greeted them from beyond the tunnel, echoing even through walls of concrete and steel, was warmer than fire.
They walked straight into the dressing room, a space now transformed. Jerseys already hung in perfect lines along the lockers. Boots gleaming, laced. The white-and-red home kits stood out even sharper under the buzzing fluorescent lights. A few players peeled off their outer layers. Wenger was already there, nodding silently at each of them as they filed in.
Francesco found his spot—number 9, captain's armband already slung over the folded kit.
He sat for just a moment. Just to let it sink in.
Then came the warm-up.
They changed into training kits quickly—black tracksuits with red trims, gloves, and training tops zipped to the chin. As they walked down the tunnel toward the pitch, Francesco heard it again—that unique thunder. Boots on concrete. The hollow pulse of expectation. And when they finally emerged into the arena, the Emirates exploded into sound.
It wasn't full yet, but it felt full. Fans already pressing into the lower rows. Floodlights painting the pitch in gold. Flags waving from the stands like storm signals. The air itself tasted different—denser, crackling.
They jogged onto the pitch in two's and three's. Francesco paired with Alexis for the first stretch, both of them moving in unison without a word. The usual sequence: high knees, lateral shuffles, sprints, quick touches. It was routine. Comforting, even.
But then…
Barcelona emerged.
You felt them before you saw them. A ripple in the crowd. A rise in pitch. Then they were there, pouring onto the opposite half of the field in deep navy and electric blue. It was surreal. You could read every name and number in perfect clarity.
10 — Messi
11 — Neymar
9 — Suárez
And right there, warming up on the far side, Leo Messi jogged alone for a moment, then stopped to juggle the ball. He didn't miss a beat. The ball didn't touch the ground. Not once.
Francesco paused. Not long. Just enough.
He'd watched Messi for more than a decade. Idolized him. Studied his movement. Memorized his goals. Had his poster on his wall as a teenager in London. And now—Messi was just sixty yards away.
He didn't gawk. He didn't point. But for a brief second, he was a kid again.
Then Alexis nudged his shoulder. "You'll be shaking his hand in ten minutes. Don't let him live in your head before then."
Francesco grinned and nodded. "You're right. Just another player."
But he knew that wasn't true. Messi wasn't just another player. He was a measuring stick for everyone.
Still, this was his turf. His night. And he wasn't here to spectate.
After drills, they jogged back through the tunnel, the crowd's noise now rising by the minute. Inside, the dressing room felt hotter. Closer. Like the pressure had its own temperature.
They peeled off the training kits and one by one slipped into their match-day armor. Francesco buttoned the collar of his jersey, slipped the captain's band up his forearm, and laced his boots tighter than usual.
Wenger stood in front of the squad as they gathered around.
No projector. No whiteboard. Just his voice.
"We play with courage," he said, echoing his words from the Leicester match. "We are not here to survive Barcelona. We are here to beat them. Let that be clear."
He walked to the chalkboard and began to lay out the shape.
"4-2-3-1, as always."
He gestured across the diagram, moving his finger with sharp precision.
"Petr in goal. Our back four: Nacho on the left, Hector right. Virgil and Laurent in the center. Stay tight. Stay brave."
A pause.
"Midfield—Aaron and N'Golo. Balance each other. Control the space. No ball-watching."
He tapped the central triangle.
"Mesut ahead of them. Keep your head up. Create. Orchestrate."
Now the flanks.
"Left: Alexis. Right: Theo. Be fearless. Attack them. Make them doubt."
Finally, he pointed to the tip of the spear.
"And Francesco—up top. Our captain. Our heartbeat."
Francesco nodded, heart pounding.
The bench was named: David Ospina, Per, Gibbs, Coquelin, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Welbeck, Giroud.
Wenger turned back to the group.
"They will test us. They will try to frustrate. But remember—we are not here to admire. We are here to answer. You have the chance to show the world that Arsenal belongs. Take it."
No one spoke. They just rose, each player sealing in their own ritual. Ramsey tapped his shin pads. Koscielny tugged his socks twice, no more. Francesco pulled on his gloves and rubbed his palms together, breath slow, steady.
Outside, the announcer's voice echoed down the tunnel.
"Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to the Emirates Stadium for tonight's UEFA Champions League Round of 16 first leg between… Arsenal Football Club… and FC Barcelona!"
The announcer's voice faded out, swallowed by the roar of fifty-five thousand voices rising in unison. Then—almost like a divine cue—the Champions League anthem began.
It hit like thunder.
That unmistakable swell of orchestral majesty, crisp and powerful, flooded the Emirates. The kind of sound that didn't just play in the stadium—it filled your chest, ran under your skin, lifted your heart whether you wanted it to or not.
Francesco took a breath as the tunnel lights turned green.
Time to walk.
The lineup began to move. Cech were behind him, then Koscielny, then Virgil, Bellerín, Monreal, and the rest.
Barcelona's line had already formed alongside them. Messi, Iniesta, Suárez, Neymar—all close enough now that their steps echoed together in the concrete tunnel. The contrast was sharp: Arsenal in red and white, Barcelona in deep navy with glowing stripes of neon orange. The silence between them was almost sacred.
Then, with the final drumbeat of the anthem's opening stanza ringing out, the stewards waved them forward.
Francesco stepped onto the pitch.
It was as if the volume knob of the world had been cranked to maximum. The anthem surged from the speakers, the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder in roaring reverence, and the camera crews circled like hawks, capturing every inch of sweat, focus, and tension on every face.
The players formed up instantly—referees in the center, teams flanking either side.
Arsenal to the right of the officials.
Barcelona to the left.
Francesco stood at the head of his line, chin lifted, eyes fixed forward but peripheral vision alive with movement. To his left stood Iniesta, face calm, hands behind his back. Behind him: Messi, stoic. Then Suárez, pacing a little. Then Busquets, Piqué, Alves, Mascherano… Titans, one after the other.
He kept his jaw set, his hands at his sides. It was easy to forget where you were in moments like this. Easy to get lost in the anthem, the flags, the lights. But Francesco grounded himself in the feel of the armband on his arm. In the scratch of the grass beneath his boots. In the knowledge that this wasn't a dream.
He was here. Leading Arsenal. Under these lights.
The anthem hit its crescendo, and the camera panned across the lineups, faces immortalized in full HD, broadcast to hundreds of millions.
Then—it stopped.
Silence, broken only by the distant echoes of the crowd's cheer still rolling from the upper tiers.
Barcelona's players were the first to move. Iniesta stepped forward and offered his hand to the referee, followed by Messi, Neymar, and the rest. Francesco took a half-step toward them, shaking hands with Iniesta first—a firm grip, mutual respect in their eyes—then Messi, Suárez, and Piqué. The others followed suit.
Cech and Ter Stegen exchanged a nod and brief handshake. Ramsey and Busquets bumped wrists. Alexis and Neymar clasped hands and exchanged what might've been some South American joke—they laughed briefly before the game-face returned.
Then Arsenal's players moved in to greet the officials—referee Cüneyt Çakır and his assistants. Francesco made sure to make eye contact with each of them as he extended his hand—respect mattered.
Then came the photo call.
A member of UEFA's media crew gestured sharply, and the Arsenal starting XI jogged into formation.
Cech knelt in front. Koscielny and Van Dijk stood tall in the center, flanked by Monreal and Bellerín. In the middle, Ramsey and Kanté stood behind Özil. On the flanks: Alexis and Walcott, both crouched low, focused. And right in the center of it all—hands behind his back, standing proud—Francesco Lee.
Click. Click. Click.
The flash of cameras, dozens of them. Shutters snapping from every angle. Somewhere high above, drones hovered for aerial footage. Down in the away end, the Barcelona squad huddled for their own shot, Messi casually spinning the ball in his hands.
Then Francesco turned, walked toward the middle with Iniesta.
Time for the coin toss.
The referee greeted them with a quiet, almost casual smile—like this wasn't one of the biggest matches in European football that season.
"Gentlemen," he said. "You know the drill."
He showed them the coin—one side embossed with the UEFA Champions League starball, the other with the tournament's logo. He looked to Francesco.
"Call it in the air."
Francesco nodded. "Starball."
The coin flew, flipping over itself in a blur of silver.
It landed. The ref bent to check it, then turned it onto his palm.
"Starball it is."
Francesco smiled subtly. One win already.
"I want kickoff," he said, without hesitation.
Iniesta nodded. "We'll stay on this side."
The ref confirmed the decisions with his assistants, then gestured toward the center circle.
As they walked back to their teams, Francesco glanced over at Iniesta. The Spaniard offered him a small, respectful nod. Not the kind that said good luck. More the kind that said show me what you've got.
Francesco returned it.
Back with the squad, he clapped his hands sharply.
"Let's start sharp. Don't wait for them to set the tone."
Özil gave a thumbs up. Walcott bounced on his toes. Alexis was already pacing in anticipation.
Francesco turned to the center circle and took his place beside the ball. Özil jogged over to stand next to him. A few final camera pans swirled around the stadium. In the lower tier of the East Stand, Francesco spotted her—Leah, hands clasped on the glass in front of the VIP box, eyes locked on him. She smiled when she saw him looking.
He blinked back at her, one heartbeat longer than needed.
Then dropped his eyes to the ball.
Game time.
The referee checked with his assistants. One final glance at his watch.
Then he blew the whistle.
The opening minutes were electric.
Arsenal pressed early, moving the ball with speed and precision. Özil linked quickly with Ramsey, who immediately slid it out wide to Bellerín. The Spaniard drove forward, playing a one-two with Walcott before darting toward the edge of the box. The move broke down when Piqué stepped across and cleared, but the intent was clear.
Barcelona weren't going to be gifted control. They would have to earn it.
Francesco made his first sprint in the third minute—darting between Mascherano and Piqué to chase a chipped ball from Alexis. Ter Stegen rushed out and punched it clear just ahead of him, but the crowd responded with a roar.
This wasn't fear. This was fire.
On the sidelines, Wenger clapped with both hands.
"Again!" he shouted.
Barcelona responded the only way they knew how—by passing.
By the fifth minute, the trio of Busquets, Iniesta, and Messi began their dance. Short passes. Clever triangles. You could see the threat before it even arrived, like storm clouds building on a blue sky. Messi dropped deeper, pulled Kante with him, and opened space for Neymar to cut inside.
Francesco dropped back to help close the lane.
Every player knew—it would take everything.
Every inch.
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.
________________________________________________
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: 37
Goal: 55
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