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Francesco, who'd played the full ninety, who scored and drifted and fought, sunk to one knee, chest heaving. His shirt soaked through, cleats dug into turf. For a second, he swore he might pass out.
Then the days pass, as Francesco leaned back in his seat, the growl of the BMW X5 beneath him a familiar comfort as the morning sun leaked gold onto the empty stretch of road ahead. His hands gripped the steering wheel loosely, but his mind was far from relaxed. There was a tension in his gut—not nerves exactly, but the weight of what was coming.
Camp Nou.
Barcelona.
The second leg.
His jaw clenched as he glanced briefly in the rearview mirror. Not at the road—he knew that stretch of A1 like the lines on his palm—but at his own eyes. They looked tired. Still rimmed with the high of recent battles. But sharp. Alert. Ready.
It was 15 March, and in less than 30 hours, he'd step into the colosseum of Catalonia, shoulder to shoulder with men who believed now—truly believed—that they could do something impossible.
Arsenal 4, Barcelona 3. That was the score from the first leg. And it was still surreal.
He could remember every breath of that night. Every bead of sweat. Every collision with Piqué. Every shout from Özil. Every glimpse of Messi before he disappeared again, like a ghost behind smoke. That goal Francesco scored—blitzing between Alba and Mascherano and finishing near post—was one of the best of his life.
But Barcelona hadn't laid down. And no one expected them to at home.
He knew they were coming. Knew they'd be sharper, hungrier, colder.
But so was he.
As Colney drew closer, the trees lining the training ground gave way to motion—coaches idling near the car park, security staff moving players through the gate, fans bundled in scarves already gathering beyond the fences, hoping to catch a glimpse of the traveling squad before they flew out.
Francesco pulled into his usual spot near the front. His BMW barely hissed before he shut the engine down and stepped out, duffel slung over one shoulder. His boots, wrapped in their own velvet pouch, were nestled inside. Superstitions, he'd once told Jack Wilshere. But now he carried them like weapons.
The training centre buzzed with energy. Not frantic—but concentrated.
Inside, players were already arriving. Sánchez was in the corner of the lounge, nodding along to something Spanish blaring from his headphones. Koscielny stood near the physio desk, being assessed for light muscle fatigue. Özil was, of course, silent, head down over his phone, probably watching match footage from the first leg—he did that a lot, quietly.
"Hey, Capitano," Welbeck called, grinning, slapping Francesco's shoulder as he passed.
Francesco returned the smile and bumped knuckles with him. "Rested?"
Welbeck chuckled. "Scored, didn't I?"
He had. Just a few days ago, when Arsenal hosted Watford in the FA Cup quarterfinal at the Emirates.
That match, sandwiched between the North London Derby and Barcelona, could've easily been a trap. Fatigue, distraction, ego—all waiting to twist the wrong moment. But Arsenal had shown maturity. Discipline. And they needed all of it.
They won 3–2.
Francesco scored the opener—sliding a pass past Gomes after Özil's through ball cracked open Watford's line like glass. Alexis added the second with a venomous strike from the edge of the box. Welbeck, sharp and opportunistic, made it three.
But Watford didn't go quietly. Ighalo wrestled one back late, muscling between Gabriel and Gibbs. And Guedioura unleashed a screamer from thirty yards that shook Ospina's gloves. They made Arsenal sweat for the result. But that was okay.
Because now? Now Arsenal were into the semifinals of the FA Cup. And spirits were high.
Not inflated. But solid. Rooted.
By 9:30 a.m., Wenger had addressed the squad. Short, to the point.
"Today is not about training," he said, standing before them in his long coat. "Today is about unity. Calm. Confidence. We travel together. We prepare. We don't think about history. We don't think about reputation. We play football. That is all."
Francesco liked that. He didn't need fireworks. He needed clarity.
The bus ride to Heathrow was smooth—half the players slept, others listened to music or rewatched footage. Özil tapped his stylus on his iPad, highlighting passing lanes. Ramsey was already flipping through Barcelona's previous matches. Koscielny leaned back, eyes closed, breathing like a monk.
Francesco stared out the window. The city blurred past, and all he could think of was Camp Nou.
The flight was swift. Arsenal had chartered their usual private jet. Quiet. Efficient.
Barcelona's skies were clear by the time they landed. A light wind from the sea greeted them as they disembarked, and the team bus took them straight to the hotel—a discreet five-star residence in the hills, removed from the city's bustle.
There was media outside, of course. Always was. Spanish journos craning their necks. Cameras hoping to catch a crack in someone's expression.
But Arsenal offered none.
Francesco walked in with his head up, not smug, but focused. He didn't need to speak to the cameras. He'd speak on the pitch.
The rest of the afternoon was all rhythm.
Lunch.
Physio.
Stretching sessions.
Team meetings.
The day passed not quickly, but smoothly—like a river flowing around well-placed stones. Every player knew the routine. Knew the demands.
Dinner was light, and by 9 p.m., the hotel had gone quiet. No phones. No guests. Just thirty men and their dreams—bracing for a war in Spain.
That night, Francesco lay in his room staring at the ceiling. The sounds of Barcelona were muffled by the hotel's thick walls, but he could feel the city out there—beating like a heart.
He thought about the first leg.
About the North London Derby.
About Watford.
Then he thought about Messi.
Not with fear, but with fascination. He admired the man. Respected him like a craftsman respects a master. But admiration didn't mean surrender. And tomorrow, Francesco would be trying to unseat him.
He closed his eyes.
Slept without dreaming.
The next day, sun rose pale gold over the city, casting long lines across terracotta rooftops. At breakfast, Francesco found his appetite muted but forced himself to eat. Oatmeal. Eggs. Water. Just enough to fuel the machine.
He and Sánchez exchanged glances. No words needed. Both men understood what this meant. For them. For the team. For the legacy they were building together.
By noon, they departed the hotel for their scheduled walk around Camp Nou.
Empty stadium.
Just the pitch. The stands. The ghosts.
Francesco had been here before—as a kid, on a stadium tour with his family when they visited Spain years ago. He remembered standing in the upper bowl, staring down and imagining what it must feel like to play there.
Now he would know.
The pitch looked fast. Trimmed short. Tidy.
Wenger stood at midfield for a while, coat flapping in the breeze, arms folded. He didn't say much.
Francesco walked the width of the field, from touchline to touchline. He looked up. Imagined it packed with 90,000 people. The noise. The chants. The pressure.
Then he imagined scoring.
Afternoon dissolved into evening.
Kick-off was at 19:45 local time.
They returned to the hotel, rested, then prepared.
The hotel lobby hummed with quiet intensity as the squad gathered around luggage, duffel bags slung over shoulders, headphones on ears, breath shallow but eyes bright. Francesco adjusted the straps on his bag, glancing at Sánchez beside him. No words passed, only mutual understanding: today meant everything.
The bus ride to Camp Nou was short—but felt infinitely longer. Outside, palm trees whispered in Mediterranean air. Traffic hummed with day-trippers and skyline watchers unaware of the battle about to begin inside the looming stadium.
Inside the bus, all screens were off. Phones were stowed. Players stared at blank seatbacks or out the window, each lost in their own rituals.
Francesco closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He could hear Barcelona around him, crowd drifting from below—not in his ears, but in his mind.
When the stadium finally came into view, rising like ancient coliseum walls, the cabin's silence deepened. Arsenal arrived and disembarked, stepping into Camp Nou's tunnel.
Entering the Arsenal changing room was like walking into a church. Cool air. Quiet voices. Cleats clacked, kits rustled, fingers snapped tape around wrists. Jerseys hung in perfect rows, and lockers were polished.
Players changed into the red-and-white warm-up gear, shoes exchanged for boots, sweatbands adjusted. The buzz of the dressing room was palpable—focused, energized.
Then they emerged onto the field under gentler evening light, the colossal stands empty of fans but resonating with echo. The grass smelled sharp and alive. They jogged together—laps, stretching, dynamic drills—passing patterns, short interchanges, shooting practice.
Ospina dove, saved, collected corners. Van Dijk and Koscielny shuffled through shape. Kanté and Coquelin ran pressing drills. Özil threaded passes in shaping movements. Sánchez and Francesco cut inside. Giroud laid it off to feet.
Wenger watched on the sideline, clipboard held loosely, occasionally calling players into brief exchanges. He tapped David, offered a word to Giroud, glided past Francesco, giving two simple words: "Stay alive."
Then they retreated to the tunnel in formation—ready.
Inside again, the players stripped off training tops and pulled on the match kit. Francesco settled his No. 9 shirt, wrapping sleeves, adjusting the crest. He strapped his shin pads, tied his boots tight, took a breath.
Ospina came in, helmeted and coolly confident.
Wenger entered. His suit was neat, eyes focused. There was no gesturing. Instead, everything communicated forward motion.
"Very clear plan," he began softly. "We're going to play a 4‑2‑3‑1. This is not about risk, it's about control. Balance. Movement."
Hands rotated on the whiteboard.
"In goal: Ospina. Petr dislocated his wrist in training yesterday, so he's out. David stepping in."
Francesco glanced sideways at the Colombian keeper, giving him a small nod.
"Back four left to right: Monreal, Van Dijk, Koscielny, Bellerín," Wenger continued. "Two acting as shield: Kanté and Coquelin. They must cut out the space between their two lines, intercept quickly, feed the ball forward."
Mesut Özil moved quietly to the board next. "You will sit as the number 10—central, controlling—but stay connected to the strike line."
Wenger looked directly at him. "Your vision under pressure is key. Be calm. Be the link."
Then came the winger instructions.
"Left wing: Sánchez. Right wing: Francesco Lee."
That drew attention. Francesco looked up, then back down, taking it in.
"Your role is more dynamic today—not up top, but pulling inside, drifting wide, creating space. Walcott has not been at top form. Today, the precision of movement expects you on the right."
— Giroud added to finish shape: "One striker: Olivier. Target man. Hold-up play. A pivot."
Wenger paused, looked around the room, eyes resting on them all individually.
"We trust you. Keep discipline. Don't chase the game; let your movement create the game. The substitutions: Macey, Mertesacker, Gibbs, Elneny, Iwobi, Walcott, Welbeck."
Silence. Then low murmurs.
He closed. "Be calm in possession, aggressive out of possession. Move as one. Play as one. Let's go."
No further fanfare came. Doors opened. The tunnel waited.
They lined up in formation:
Ospina in the middle.
Back four of guards.
Kanté and Coquelin shoulders together.
Özil central, wide behind the striker line.
Sánchez on the left, Francesco on the right.
Giroud at tip.
Opposition waited across the white line—Barcelona in their deep navy stripes. Messi. Neymar. Suarez.
There were no curses, no stares—just respect. And intent.
The referee raised his whistle.
And the kick-off crackled like gunpowder.
Camp Nou's roar came like heat. Not angry, but full of purpose. Barcelona moved quickly—triangles, one-twos, tight link-up shapes. Spurs had pounded them in previous games—city clubs, they knew control better.
Arsenal resisted. Bellerín and Monreal jockeyed. Van Dijk and Koscielny held lines. Coquelin sniffed out danger. Kanté hunted every pass. In possession, Arsenal shaped up—Özil small-ticking the midfield, Giroud holding.
By minute 10, Camp Nou had begun judging them—not by archaic reputation, but by current nerve.
Francesco scuffed a cross to Giroud. Alexis cut inside and saw space. Kanté intercepted a pass to Busquets. Ospina saved deep on the other end.
The Camp Nou breathed fire. Not literally—but in that humid Catalan evening, with nearly 100,000 voices shaking concrete and steel, it might as well have.
And at minute 18, it finally happened.
The trio. The terror. The trident. Messi. Suárez. Neymar.
It began almost innocently—if anything with Messi could ever be called that. He peeled wide from the half-space, dragging Monreal half a step off his line. Koscielny recognized it too late. As Özil retreated to help screen, Messi played a subtle inside pass into Suárez's feet—ankle height, just enough to keep it off Kanté's interception radius.
Suárez let it roll across his body with a deft touch. Coquelin lunged but found air. Virgil closed—but just a second too late.
With the outside of his boot, Suárez spun a through ball behind Arsenal's line—a blade drawn clean between Van Dijk and Bellerín. And Neymar? He was already on the move.
Ospina charged.
Too late.
Neymar dropped his shoulder left, nudged the ball around the Colombian with his right, and gently passed the ball into the empty net.
Barcelona 1–0 Arsenal.
Aggregate: 4–4.
The stadium became a wave of madness. Scarlet and cobalt exploded in unified voice. Flags twirled like cyclones. Flares flared. The scoreboard pulsed like a taunt, blinking red with the reset aggregate. Arsenal's advantage—wiped away in less than a third of the game.
And yet—there was no panic on the pitch. No howling hands in the air. No sagging shoulders.
Not from the man wearing the armband.
Francesco Lee jogged back to the halfway line, calm-faced, jaw tight, nodding to his teammates as he passed them. "Focus. Same game. We knew they'd score."
He tapped Özil's shoulder. Spoke low. Then to Coquelin. A hand to Sánchez. A signal to Bellerín.
It wasn't a motivational speech. It didn't need to be. It was something subtler—a reminder that this wasn't about surviving. It was about believing.
Still, Barcelona surged.
By the 20th minute, Arsenal were penned. Iniesta took the conductor's baton, drawing strings where none existed. Rakitic shadowed just behind him, a stalking knife. And Busquets—God, Busquets—was the metronome, every touch a deliberate beat in the tempo Barça dictated.
Neymar buzzed like a wasp down the left. Messi dropped deep, dragging Kanté out of his pocket. Suárez grinned like he knew something nobody else did.
Arsenal dropped to a 4-5-1 in defense, with Francesco tucked inside, helping Özil and Sánchez clog the middle. Giroud was alone on top. Alone but useful—screening passing lanes, pressing angles.
Still, Ospina had to save a Messi curler in the 22nd. Then parry a Neymar cross away from Suárez in the 23rd.
By the 24th, Arsenal were gasping.
Then came the 25th minute. A glint of oxygen.
Ozil had been quiet—too quiet. Barcelona had choked the space around him like ivy. But brilliance waits.
Francesco stood near the halfway line when it began—pressing Dani Alves, forcing a hurried pass toward Busquets. Kanté anticipated it, slid like a knife between boots and nicked it. The ball spilled to Özil.
For once, Busquets was out of position. For once, the pitch opened.
Özil didn't even look.
One perfect, reverse-threaded ball in behind Mascherano.
And Francesco—God bless him—was already running.
He took the ball in stride, pushed once with his instep, then another, narrowing the angle. Mathieu slid. Too slow. Ter Stegen rushed forward.
Francesco didn't blast it. He didn't chip it.
He passed it into the bottom left.
The net rippled with satisfaction.
Arsenal 1–1 Barcelona.
Aggregate: 5–4 Arsenal.
The away end exploded. 3,000 red-and-white warriors screamed themselves hoarse behind thick plexiglass.
Francesco didn't even celebrate wild. He pointed—first to Özil. Then to the badge on his chest.
He turned and rallied the boys with clenched fists and a bellow: "Again. Again!"
In the technical area, Wenger simply nodded once, jaw set. He knew the storm wasn't over.
The next thirty minutes before halftime was a battle of attrition.
Barcelona responded with venom.
Messi dropped deeper and deeper, orchestrating triangles with Alves and Rakitic. Neymar found joy wide, trying to pull Bellerín into isolation. Suárez was a shadow in the box, always hiding, always reappearing.
But Arsenal… Arsenal defended like soldiers born to bleed for one another.
Van Dijk—colossal in every duel. Koscielny—timing his interceptions to the second. Monreal, battered but unyielding. Bellerín, stretched but never breaking.
Ospina's gloves stung with every save: a Neymar volley at 31', a Messi free-kick tipped over at 35', and a Suárez half-turn in the 38th that nearly broke the bar.
Meanwhile, Arsenal attacked on the break. Like an elastic slingshot.
In the 40th, Francesco burst forward again, shrugging off Mathieu's drag. He played a flat pass across the box toward Giroud—who dummied! Sánchez arrived—blasted!
Saved by Ter Stegen's trailing leg.
The air was thick now—not just with noise, but with narrative. You could feel it pressing down from the floodlights, humming off the pitch, crawling up the spines of every man in red and blue.
Barcelona had the ball. Of course they did. But Arsenal—Arsenal had something else. That fire you can't always see but you know when it's there. You feel it when your lungs are burning but you run anyway. When your boots feel like bricks but you still chase the ball down.
And Francesco Lee? He had that fire dancing in his veins like it had waited his whole life for this night.
The clock ticked into the 44th minute. The crowd roared for the halftime whistle, but the game had one more breath to take before the break. And Francesco—he inhaled it like prophecy.
He stood wide on the right, hugging the chalk line. Özil had the ball in the center circle, gliding under pressure like a man moving through music. He turned out of Busquets' reach and found Bellerín streaking down the line. The fullback didn't look—just stabbed the ball wide.
To Francesco.
Time froze.
Jordi Alba approached fast, already reading the angle, feet coiled like a sprinter ready to strike. Mathieu tracked in behind, a longer stride, a heavy shadow.
But Francesco? He wasn't in the mood for negotiation.
One touch killed the ball. The next burst into space. Alba lunged.
Too late.
Francesco dipped his shoulder, flicked the ball through the narrowest of windows, and danced past the Spaniard like he'd only been a ghost in the way. Then came Mathieu—long legs, long reach—but Francesco chopped the ball back inside, turned, turned again, left him spinning like a windmill in a storm.
Now he was inside the box. The angle was narrowing. Ter Stegen adjusted, weight on his front foot.
Francesco lifted his head.
Giroud was there.
A near-post run? No. Too crowded. Back post? Too deep.
But center of the six-yard box, floating between Busquets and Mascherano like a red balloon? That was his spot.
Francesco whipped in the cross—not a hopeful swing, but a surgeon's incision. Left foot, curling, dipping. It begged to be finished.
And Giroud answered.
He rose—not with power, but with precision, letting the ball kiss his forehead. He guided it across the goal, looping it past Ter Stegen's outstretched glove.
For a half-second—just one—the entire stadium paused.
The ball was going in.
It was in.
Except—
Dani Alves had other plans.
He had sprinted from nowhere. A blur of navy and maroon. Somehow—somehow—he tracked the flight, twisted his body mid-air, and launched into an overhead clearance off the goal line.
Not a header. Not a toe poke. But a full-blooded, acrobatic, overhead kick.
The ball flew back out of the box like a cannonball. Gasps ricocheted around Camp Nou like a lightning strike.
Ter Stegen lay sprawled. Giroud cursed the gods. Francesco had hands on his head, mouth wide, stunned into silence.
So close.
So cruel.
But such is the Champions League.
Barcelona pounced on the rebound, launching a last-ditch counter. Neymar sprinted. Messi joined him. The crowd exploded again with hope.
But Koscielny was there. He read it. Intercepted. Cleared. Nothing more before halftime, as finally the whistle blew that end the first half.
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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: 43
Goal: 63
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