If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Francesco, chest rising, sweat beading at his brow, felt the weight of captaincy settle deeper in his bones. He'd orchestrated runs, read passes, called touches. He'd lifted teammates, signaled for pressing. His body quiet. His head loud.
Time didn't slow down. It twisted.
Twenty-six minutes had gone. Just enough for a false sense of control to settle in. Just enough for Arsenal's passes to seem smoother, for their shape to hold firm through the turns and spins of Manchester United's front four. Özil had just drifted between Schneiderlin and Herrera, fed a neat pass to Alexis, who flicked it back to Ramsey. But then came the miscue. A soft touch. Too soft.
Morgan Schneiderlin intercepted.
One pass. One step. One boy.
Marcus Rashford.
He was nineteen. Or maybe twenty-seven, the way he moved. Youth in body, but something else in the eyes. He didn't hesitate—just turned and burned, bursting past Koscielny like he'd been running through him in dreams for years. The veteran Frenchman tried to recover, cutting inside, reaching with his left boot.
Too late.
Rashford dipped his shoulder—once, twice—and then froze Laurent with a feint so cold it could've cracked marble. Koscielny bit. A half step inside.
And that was all the space Rashford needed.
Francesco was watching it unfold from near the center circle, retreating into a defensive shape just as the danger bloomed. He saw it as a striker would. The way Rashford dropped his shoulder, opened his body just so—inviting Čech to gamble.
Cech did. He surged forward, arms spreading like wings.
But Rashford was ice.
The shot came low and early, before Čech could widen his stance. Near post, skipping over the grass like a stone on a lake. Past the keeper's left hand.
Net. Snap.
The Stretford End erupted—violent, ecstatic. The kind of roar that only comes when youth defies experience. A sound that didn't just celebrate—it declared.
1–0. Manchester United.
Francesco dropped his head slightly. Not in shame. In calculation.
Koscielny turned away, jaw clenched. Van Dijk jogged over, clapping his gloves, trying to break the moment. "Heads up. We go again."
But they all knew it wasn't just a goal.
It was a shift.
Rashford ran toward the corner flag, arms wide, disbelief in his grin. His teammates mobbed him. Lingard was the first to arrive, hair flopping with each jump. Herrera next, shouting something unintelligible but joyous. Even Carrick let emotion crack through his calm.
And as the Old Trafford crowd sang louder, some Arsenal heads dropped—not for long, but just long enough.
Just long enough for the knife to twist again.
Then on the 32nd minute, something happen and it started on Arsenal's left side. Monreal had tucked in slightly, anticipating a run from Juan Mata. But it wasn't Mata making the move—it was Jesse Lingard.
And Jesse Lingard was flying.
The ball came from Schneiderlin again, a clever pass into the right channel. Lingard took it on the bounce and darted down the line, booting it ahead of him in full stride. Monreal turned, but he was already half a step too late. Lingard was quicker than people remembered, slicker than Arsenal prepared for.
Bellerín came to cover. He always did. The Spanish right-back was jet fuel and determination, but even he couldn't halt the momentum. Lingard shifted the ball onto his right, dropped his shoulder like Rashford had earlier, and sprinted to the byline.
Then—without pausing to look—he curled in a ball that hung perfectly in the air. A dancer's arc.
Inside the six-yard box, Rashford ghosted between Koscielny and Van Dijk.
Two defenders. One kid.
Still, he leapt. Not wildly. Not like a boy. He rose like a striker with a thousand goals behind him, arched his back, and met the ball with his forehead clean.
Čech saw it. He dove.
But no keeper reaches a header like that. Not when the contact's flush, the placement perfect, the pace deceptive.
Ball. Net. Again.
2–0.
Arsenal's bench was silent. Steve Bould sat forward, elbows on knees. Wenger, arms folded, didn't move. Not yet. The noise inside Old Trafford grew louder, almost unbearable. A pulsing rhythm of belief and renewal. A teenager had scored twice on his Premier League debut. Against the league leaders.
Francesco looked up at the scoreboard. 32:03.
The seconds after the goal felt heavier than the goal itself. The air was thick with breath and sound, with doubt trying to claw into Arsenal's spine.
Across the pitch, United players jogged back like they'd unlocked some secret rhythm. Herrera slapped Rashford's back. Blind bumped fists with De Gea. Even Louis van Gaal—usually expressionless—stood at the edge of his technical area, clapping with brief but unmistakable satisfaction.
Francesco gathered the players near halfway. He didn't shout. He wasn't that kind of captain.
He just made eye contact with Özil first.
Then Ramsey. Then Kante. Then Theo.
"We don't change who we are," he said, quietly but firmly.
Theo looked down, nodding. Özil adjusted his wristband, brow furrowed. Alexis, hands on hips, nodded once, sharp.
United were flying now.
The passes zipped. The tackles landed with more sting. Every clearance came with a cheer. Every 50–50 ball with a whistle and a stomp. The crowd had blood in their mouths, and Rashford—eyes wide, energy boundless—was the tip of their spear.
Francesco dropped deeper to link play, trying to get Özil and Ramsey on the ball sooner. He could feel the current pulling against him—United's midfield now pressing like madmen, snapping at heels, harrying every touch.
Kante was everywhere. He dropped into fullback to cover a diagonal. Then sprinted thirty yards to pressure Blind, who'd floated into midfield. His jersey was soaked through already, but his lungs were a furnace.
Ramsey recovered, too. He sent a long ball over the top for Theo—who beat Rojo for pace—but Theo's touch let him down, and De Gea smothered it.
Then came another warning shot. In the 38th minute, Herrera bent a ball around Koscielny for Mata, who tried a first-time curler to the far post. It beat Čech—but not the woodwork. Off the bar, ricocheting back into the box.
Koscielny cleared this one, but barely.
At the 41st minute , the match tilts not because one side collapses—but because the other refuses to.
It had been a long twenty minutes since Rashford's first goal, and longer still since Arsenal had looked like the side that bested Barcelona. But the belief hadn't vanished. It had only gone quiet—buried beneath the roar of a stadium breathing new life through a teenage debutant's lungs.
And yet, there was still Francesco.
Not angry. Not panicked. Focused. Watching. Always watching.
The ball came again to Özil at the edge of United's final third—right as the stadium was still rumbling from Mata's near miss. Kante had turned a desperate clearance into a controlled chaos of limbs and clever feet, winning it back just outside the center circle. He'd jinked past Herrera with a shimmy, shrugged off a late challenge from Schneiderlin, and sent the ball to Ramsey, who played it short and sharp into Mesut's stride.
Özil didn't hesitate. The rhythm had returned.
His eyes flicked left first—just enough to sell Rojo and Blind a lie. Then he split the defense with a surgical ball through the right channel, between Carrick's trailing leg and Daley Blind's sagging position.
Francesco was already on the move before Mesut even struck it.
He wasn't the fastest player on the pitch. But when the timing was right—when his instincts and Özil's vision found the same wavelength—no one in England moved more dangerously.
He took the ball in stride with one elegant touch off the outside of his right boot, accelerating into the box with Rojo giving chase and De Gea narrowing the angle. But Francesco didn't look flustered. He didn't even look rushed. With one glance over his shoulder, he knew how much space he had, how close Rojo's studs were to his ankles, how far De Gea had come off his line.
Then he pulled the trigger.
A low, left-footed shot across his body, sent whistling just inside the far post. Clean. Deadly. A striker's goal. The kind that comes not just from talent—but from repetition, from intuition honed in a thousand lonely hours on training pitches where no one's watching.
2–1. Game on.
Francesco didn't scream when he scored. He didn't run into the corner flag or tear off his shirt. He pumped one fist, turned back toward Özil, and pointed.
"All you."
Mesut jogged over with a small grin, hands raised in mock surrender. "About time," he mouthed.
The rest of the team followed—Ramsey dragging Kante into the celebration, Alexis clapping them both on the back, Walcott giving a thumbs-up to Wenger on the sideline.
There was no explosion of noise from the away end. Not like Old Trafford's earlier thunder. But the small section of traveling Arsenal supporters erupted with their own pride, their own belief. The cold northern air buzzed with new possibility.
And when the whistle blew a few minutes later, Arsenal jogged to the tunnel with their heads higher, their steps lighter.
There's a certain kind of silence that fills dressing rooms during big games. Not the awkward, suffocating kind. Not the sort that creeps in when confidence is gone. This silence was different.
It was the quiet of men thinking. Of players replaying chances in their heads, of lungs still catching breath, of adrenaline settling just long enough for clarity to return.
Francesco peeled his shirt off slowly, dropping it on the bench beside his boots. His chest was slick with sweat, shoulders rising and falling. He didn't speak at first. Neither did Özil, who sat beside him, legs stretched out, gaze fixed on the far wall like it was showing a film only he could see.
Wenger came in three minutes later.
No yelling. No panic. He simply stepped to the center of the room, adjusted his cuffs, and waited until he had their eyes.
"I told you this would not be like Barcelona," he began, voice low but full of steel. "Different opponent. Different energy. Different threat. But the solution remains the same."
He looked to his captain.
"Francesco—your timing was perfect. Özil, keep finding him between the lines."
Then to Alexis.
"You'll have your moment. Stay wide, wait for the overload, and punish them when they overcommit. You hear me?"
Alexis nodded. No smile. Just hunger.
Wenger turned next to his midfielders.
"Kante. Ramsey. You've seen how they flood forward when they sense weakness. Don't give them that scent. Stay tight, but not timid. Win the second balls. They've had their moment. Now we take ours."
He stepped back. Folded his arms again.
"Remember who we are. We do not panic. We dictate."
Steve Bould chimed in with a few tactical instructions—about watching Rashford's movement, about tracking late midfield runners—but the message was clear.
Arsenal weren't here to survive.
They were here to take control.
The team stood, one by one, shaking out legs, strapping tape, lacing boots. Francesco glanced at Alexis across the room, gave him a small nod.
"Let's tear them open."
The wind had picked up by the time they returned to the pitch. Not enough to change the game, but enough to remind them they were in Manchester. A brisk, sharp breeze that bit at exposed skin and rattled corner flags.
The whistle blew, and Arsenal attacked.
It wasn't reckless. It wasn't desperate. It was surgical.
From the first touch, they pressed higher. Özil roamed more freely now, drifting into half-spaces behind Schneiderlin, drawing Herrera out of shape. Francesco dropped deeper, inviting the ball, turning on a dime to draw defenders toward him before releasing Alexis or Walcott into the channels.
The cohesion returned like breath to lungs.
In the 49th minute, Ramsey nearly made it 2–2 with a rocket from outside the box—tipped just over by De Gea's outstretched fingers.
In the 52nd, Bellerín won a free-kick near the right touchline. Özil floated it in—Van Dijk met it, but his header whistled just wide.
Then came the moment.
54:02.
It started again with Özil, who skipped past Blind with a feint that drew gasps. He played it inside to Ramsey, who immediately tapped it to Francesco.
Francesco stood with the ball at his feet near the top of the box. One defender in front. Two converging.
He didn't panic.
He twisted—left, then right—dragging both defenders slightly out of position.
Then, with the outside of his boot, he slipped the ball into space.
Alexis.
On his left.
In stride.
The Chilean didn't hesitate. He struck it hard, low, and true—across his body and across De Gea.
The net bulged.
2–2.
Alexis let out a roar that could've cracked bricks. He sprinted toward the traveling fans, fists pumping like a boxer who'd just landed the winning punch.
Francesco followed, slower, grinning as he jogged over. Alexis threw an arm around his shoulders, shouting something in Spanish that only he and Bellerín could understand.
But the meaning was clear.
They were back.
The rest of the team poured in behind them—Özil, fists clenched in celebration, Van Dijk and Koscielny sprinting in from the back, even Kante clapping furiously as he jogged over.
At the edge of the touchline, Wenger finally let a small smile cross his lips.
2–2. Fifty-four minutes gone.
Old Trafford, 55th Minute – Changes on Both Sides
Arsenal's equalizer had breathed life into their veins. But neither side looked satisfied—it was a draw, and in this theatre, draws weren't enough.
At the 55th minute, tactical shifts rippled through each dugout.
On the United bench, Louis van Gaal sat upright. Rojo, who had been bypassed near weeping by Francesco's opener, trudged off. In came Timothy Fosu-Mensah, raw energy and pace. The teenager had traction on De Gea's training ground the day before—and now, in Manchester noise, moved onto the pitch with determination.
Simultaneously, Wenger stood and called a change: Welbeck replaced Theo Walcott. Friendly nods exchanged. Welbeck's shirt came on. He jogged toward the halfway line. He would bring directness, smart holds, and an extra threat in the box.
Francesco caught Welbeck's eye and nodded—warm, steady, confident.
Then on the 65th minute, United weren't done.
Ten minutes later, their renewed energy paid off.
Rashford seized the initiative again—this time deeper, closing down Coquelin in midfield. The ball spilled loose. Herrera pounced. One-two with Rashford near the box's edge. Rashford surged past van Dijk, pulled the centre-back into a tight angle, and rolled the pass back to Herrera.
No hesitation.
Herrera swung his foot around the ball, slotted it low into the corner—just inside Čech's reach, catching him off guard.
3–2 Manchester United.
The Stretford End exploded once more. Goaltrain after goaltrain. Rashford sprinted toward Herrera, fists pumping. Blind waved arms. Depan smiled—real, relieved. Van Gaal allowed an edge of pride to crack his façade.
Arsenal, meanwhile, flinched.
Then on the 69th minute, inside the resulting chaos, Arsenal remembered the blueprint. Bellerín overlapped down the right; Kante and Ramsey stretched United's midfield lines, creating half-spaces.
In one such opening, Ramsey darted left, peeled away to stretch Schneiderlin width. Özil worked the space. A quick interchange with Alexis freed him near the box edge.
He found himself one-on-one with Herrera. Eyes narrowed. He pulled back, footwork spinning, sold the Argentine one wrong way—then took the shot.
3–3.
The net rippled like thunder. Özil sprinted across to Francesco, arms raised, releasing pent-up art and brilliance. The away fans roared back to life—equal measure of relief, pride, and electric hunger. Wenger clapped his hands lightly—quiet fire contained in conviction.
The match was no longer fragile. It was balanced.
On the 80th minute, approaching the final stretch, both managers tipped toward finishing stronger.
Van Gaal withdrew his teenage star Rashford and industrious Herrera, replacing them with Januzaj and James Weir—fresh legs, trickery, creative spark.
On Arsenal's side, Wenger brought on Giroud for Francesco and Coquelin for Ramsey. The captain's armband went to Koscielny—Laurent straightened it, inhaled deeply, and led the field again.
Francesco jogged off amid applause from players who understood what he'd done: absorbed the burden, created openings, scored once and embodied calm under pressure.
He nodded at Giroud: "Hold, finish."
Giroud clapped back: "You've set the tone."
Then finally something happened on the 90+1th minute, where every great drama needs a moment when everything changes.
United had pushed up nervously—space behind them yawned. Coquelin, key to Arsenal's second-half structure, intercepted a loose pass just inside midfield.
He fed Welbeck—Welbeck at full sprint, sandwiched by defenders but fearless. Ramsey's replacement, Kante, had dropped tears of tracking back; now Welbeck fed him wide.
Kante cut inside, stretched to draw two defenders. Suddenly the lane opened.
A glancing pass. Welbeck adjusted his body, half-turned, controlled on his thigh, then dragged it across the edge of the box to Alexis, pulling him one step wide left.
Alexis, on the move, didn't panic. He looked up briefly. Identified space between two terrified defenders.
He slid the ball inside, into the path of Welbeck again.
And Welbeck, with calm precision and a single control, arrowed his shot low into the near post.
4–3.
The stadium stunned. Arsenal players sprinted backward, scrambling to embrace the scorer. Welbeck's scream was raw and real. Alexis dropped to one knee in relief, clenching fists. Kante sprinted to the corner, lifting his shirt over his head in disbelief. Özil's dance—jabbing skyward—mirrored the traveling fans behind.
Wenger punched his glove in the air. Koscielny's fingers trembled around the armband but held steady as he punched into the air himself.
Arsenal had taken the lead—for the first time all game.
The final minutes felt like suspended time. United surged forward—Januzaj twisting dangerously along the flank, Weir drifting between Coquelin and van Dijk for half-spaces.
But Arsenal held.
Čech pulled off a huge save from Januzaj in 94'. Kante and Coquelin were everywhere, stifling midfield air. Van Dijk and Koscielny co-owned the box—every cross contested, every flick cleared.
Referee blew the final whistle.
Arsenal 4 – 3 Manchester United.
The players sagged. They clung to each other. The away fans—rare advantage at Old Trafford—roared as though possessed. Francesco, walking slowly back onto the pitch, received pats from every teammate. Özil hugged him. Giroud pulled him into a giant bear hug. Alexis slapped him on the back again.
In the away section, a banner fluttered: "LEE & CO – OUR MIRACLE NIGHT."
But Francesco's eyes were on Wenger, who stood at the edge of the pitch, calm but glowing.
He'd broken United's fortress. He'd led the comeback. And at Old Trafford—against a home side riding high—Arsenal had triumphed.
________________________________________________
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: 39
Goal: 59
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9