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But Koscielny was there. He read it. Intercepted. Cleared. Nothing more before halftime, as finally the whistle blew that end the first half.
The tunnel at Camp Nou swallowed them like a long, flickering throat of stone. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting sterile glows over red shirts drenched in sweat and focus. No one spoke—not because there was nothing to say, but because the air between them was already thick with meaning.
Francesco walked with hands on his hips, head tilted down, lips pressed together. A bead of sweat slid from his jawline. He didn't wipe it. He didn't need to. His mind was still out there—on that ball he curved to Giroud, on the roar that almost erupted, and the flash of Alves' boot that snatched it all away.
So close.
But they weren't dead. Not by a long stretch.
They were winning.
5–4 on aggregate.
Inside the dressing room, the hum of adrenaline still lingered, like heat rising from asphalt. Players dropped into seats like fighters returning to the corner after ten brutal rounds. Some pulled shirts over their heads. Some gulped water. Others just leaned back and let their chests rise and fall like tidal rhythms.
Kanté paced. Özil sat hunched, adjusting his laces even though they didn't need adjusting. Van Dijk cracked his neck, once to each side. Ospina rubbed his wrists with a towel, nodding to himself after every save he replayed in his mind.
Francesco sat on the end of the bench. No words. Not yet. He closed his eyes for a second, listening not to the stadium above, but to the rhythm of his own heart. Still pounding. Still here.
The door opened.
Arsène Wenger walked in like a quiet storm. No dramatic stride. No barking orders. But the moment he entered, everyone turned toward him. All the noise faded.
The gaffer was always like that. He didn't demand attention. He commanded it. A force of calm in a game ruled by chaos.
He held a clipboard, but he didn't look at it. Not yet.
"Good," he began, voice low but firm. "You've shown belief. Discipline. Fight. We've survived their punches, and we've made ours count."
He stepped further into the room, scanning each face—Ospina, Monreal, Bellerín, Giroud, Özil.
Francesco.
"But we're not through," he continued. "They will come harder now. Stronger. They'll take more risks. Push more men forward. It will feel like you are drowning at times."
He looked to the defenders.
"You must not panic. No gaps. No heroics. Stay compact. Speak to each other. Trust your line."
He turned toward Van Dijk and Koscielny specifically.
"Leo, Virgil—you command that back four. I want one of you always marking Suárez. Don't lose his runs behind."
Then to the flanks.
"Bellerín, Monreal—watch the overlaps. Dani Alves will try to stretch you. Neymar will drift in. Stay disciplined."
Then his eyes fell on N'Golo Kanté, who stood near the whiteboard, already bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Kanté," Wenger said, firm now. "I want you to follow Messi. Wherever he goes. He drops deep—go with him. He moves wide—you follow. This is your duel."
Kanté nodded once, eyes blazing.
"He's a genius," Wenger continued. "But even a genius can't create if he's surrounded."
Then his gaze turned toward Francesco. A pause. Not long—but just long enough.
"You," Wenger said. "You've been our pulse."
Francesco blinked, surprised.
"Keep running. Keep talking. They're scared of you when you carry the ball. You gave them problems. Give them more. But—" Wenger raised a finger, "—only when the time is right. No solo runs if we're unbalanced. Understand?"
"Understood," Francesco replied, voice hoarse, but full of fire.
Wenger walked over to the board finally and lifted his marker.
"We're keeping the 4-2-3-1. No changes yet."
A few nods around the room.
"Second balls. Win them. Transitions—fast. If you get space, punish them. But if you lose the ball—reset. No gambling."
He tapped the whiteboard twice.
"Last forty-five. We are twenty-five years without a Champions League title. This team… this team can change that."
The room thickened.
"Tonight, you hold the fate of this club. Of yourselves. They are beautiful, yes. But beauty is not invincible."
He paused.
"Don't fear their name. Don't fear the moment. The world is watching. Show them who we are."
Then came his final words, the simplest of all.
"Now go out there, and finish this."
The players stood. One by one. No one shouted. No fists in the air. Just solemn resolve—like soldiers who knew exactly what they were about to face, and still walked into it.
Francesco grabbed his shirt again—number 9—and slipped it back over his head. The fabric stuck to his skin, already half-dried with sweat, but it didn't matter.
He looked around the room once more. These weren't just teammates. They were brothers now. Comrades in something sacred.
He met Kanté's eyes as they stepped toward the tunnel.
"Messi's yours," he said, quiet.
Kanté just smiled. "He won't breathe."
Then the door opened.
And the tunnel welcomed them back into the fire.
The moment the players emerged from the tunnel, the roar that greeted them was a beast reborn.
Camp Nou had slept for only forty-five minutes, but now it awoke with blood in its mouth.
Blue and red flags waved like fire from the stands. Drums pounded behind the north goal. Chants rose in cascading fury, and the lights bore down with the weight of a thousand expectations.
Barcelona were losing—on aggregate—but just barely. One goal and the tie would shift again. The Catalans smelt the chase. And Arsenal could feel the hunt beginning.
Francesco took his position on the pitch. His chest rose slowly, deliberately. He glanced toward the Arsenal end, far behind Ospina's goal, a sea of traveling faithful who had not stopped singing for ninety minutes and would not stop now. Then his eyes drifted to the center circle where Messi stood alone, bouncing the ball from foot to foot. He could already feel the tempo about to change.
And when the whistle blew, it did.
Barcelona attacked with a kind of manic precision that only they could summon. Not chaos—never chaos—but a kind of fury in clockwork. The ball moved faster, now—a blur between feet, boots barely brushing it before releasing it again.
Iniesta dropped deep and pulled Monreal with him. Busquets anchored the play with the calm of a metronome. Alves pushed up so high he could've been mistaken for a winger, and Neymar hovered on the shoulder of Bellerín, waiting for a crack.
And Arsenal?
They did not fold.
They bent, yes—like branches in storm wind—but never broke.
Wenger's words echoed like drums in their minds.
No panic. No heroics. Stay compact. Speak to each other. Trust your line.
Koscielny barked instructions. Van Dijk followed Suárez like a shadow through a dream. Monreal and Bellerín didn't dart—they drifted with calculated discipline, letting the play wash over them and absorbing the pressure like stone.
Kanté—God, Kanté.
He was everywhere. Not just following Messi—hounding him. Tailoring his movements to the Argentine's stride, anticipating before Leo could even shift his weight. When Messi dropped into space between lines, Kanté stepped in before the pass could arrive. When Messi darted out wide, Kanté was already there, angling him toward the touchline, away from danger.
It wasn't just man-marking.
It was spiritual tethering.
And yet, the weight began to press heavier.
Minute by minute, Barcelona probed deeper. Dani Alves whipped in a dangerous cross that Ospina punched clear. Neymar tried an audacious volley from the edge of the box. It dipped violently—too violently—but missed the bar by a foot. Messi clipped one through to Suárez who turned—shot—and Koscielny blocked it with his thigh.
Arsenal countered when they could—never hurried, always coordinated. Özil dropped between the lines to turn and find Francesco. Giroud held the ball up. Alexis drifted. Every now and then, they found daylight—but never long enough to breathe.
Until the 57th.
It was only a few seconds. A lapse, maybe—a moment where the Arsenal line pressed just a step too high, and the tempo punished them.
Busquets turned and found Alves galloping down the right. A long ball. First time, Alves took it in stride—one touch to settle, another to glance up.
Then the cross.
It wasn't even that dangerous. High. Arching. But with whip.
And then—Suárez.
Of course, Suárez.
He darted between Van Dijk and Monreal, launching his body horizontally in a flash of timing and fury. His boot met the ball mid-air. A volley. Near post.
Ospina dove.
Too late.
GOAL.
The net rippled. The stands erupted like a dam exploding. And for a brief moment—just a breath—Barcelona's players sprinted toward the corner flag like men chasing salvation.
2–1 on the night.
5–5 on aggregate.
Even.
From the bench, Wenger stood slowly. Arms folded. Silent.
He didn't flinch.
On the pitch, Arsenal's players gathered quickly. They didn't argue. Didn't scold. Just closed ranks. Francesco pulled Özil and Alexis into a brief huddle.
"We're still in this," he said, voice level. "We knew this would happen. We've got one in us. Just one."
Kanté jogged back into midfield. He didn't say a word. But Francesco saw it in his eyes.
No fear. No doubt. Just belief.
And seven minutes later—that belief turned into fire.
Barcelona, high on the blood of the equalizer, pushed even harder. Too hard. Too far.
Iniesta drove forward, looking for Neymar, but his touch betrayed him—too heavy. And Kanté, the eternal engine, snapped the ball away like a street thief.
He didn't wait. He ran.
His legs churned up the turf like they had never stopped moving. He broke between Iniesta and Arda Turan—who had just come on—and surged into the open half.
Francesco sprinted parallel, eyes wide. Özil peeled right. Alexis darted left.
Kanté saw it.
He drew Busquets in—then released.
A ball threaded through grass like a needle through silk.
To Alexis.
The Chilean didn't hesitate. One touch to set. One glance up.
And one strike.
His right foot bent around it—not powerful, not blistering—just pure. Curved like a painter's brushstroke toward the far post.
Ter Stegen reached. But this time, it wasn't enough.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and nestled in the corner.
GOAL.
2–2.
6–5 on aggregate.
The away end exploded.
Dozens of Arsenal fans surged down the rows, tumbling over one another, voices ragged with disbelief. Some cried. Some just screamed. Back on the pitch, Alexis sprinted toward the corner flag, dropping to his knees, arms wide. Francesco was the first to reach him, grabbing him in an embrace that nearly toppled them both.
They had taken the punch—and punched back.
Wenger clapped once, then turned to Steve Bould beside him.
"Elneny," he said. "Warm up."
The message was clear.
The storm wasn't over. But now it was time to tighten the sails.
At the 66th minute, the substitution came. Coquelin, lungs worn raw from pressing, made way. He jogged off to a standing ovation from the Arsenal bench.
In his place came Mohamed Elneny—sharp, calm, and meticulous. A metronome beside the wildfire of Kanté.
Luis Enrique, meanwhile, made his own adjustment. Off came Rakitic, who had faded under Arsenal's clamp. In came Arda Turan—a riskier, more direct midfielder. One who could run at the defense with reckless abandon.
The Camp Nou murmured like a storm about to break.
Not for the first time that night, Arsène Wenger stood motionless at the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, gaze fixed not on the ball—but on the shape of the match, the lines of energy, the rhythm. He had managed in this stadium before. He had suffered here. But something was different now—something was alive in his side, pulsing with defiance.
Next to him, Steve Bould leaned closer.
"Oli looks spent," he muttered.
Wenger gave a slow nod. His eyes had already moved to Francesco, who had just dropped deeper to pick up a loose ball and feed it back into play. His legs were still fresh. His touch sharp. And he'd been drifting—more and more—into Giroud's space.
The time was right.
"Francesco up top," Wenger said. "Walcott right. Tell them now."
Steve turned immediately toward the bench, where Walcott was already pulling off his bib, eyes burning with anticipation.
In the 72nd minute, the change was made.
Giroud—who had fought like a lion all night, his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked frame—trotted off with heavy legs and a grateful nod. He clapped his hands toward the fans, then offered a pat on the back to Francesco as the younger man jogged into his place.
Theo Walcott took his position on the right wing, brimming with pace and purpose, while Francesco now led the line.
And somehow—everyone in red and white felt the shift.
It was more than tactical.
It was symbolic.
Francesco Lee had been Arsenal's breakout star that season. A player born of chaos and polish, thunder and silk. Now, with a quarter of the match left, Wenger was putting the weight of the tie on his shoulders.
He didn't hesitate.
Francesco adjusted his armband, glanced once toward the Arsenal end, and nodded.
Game on.
The Barcelona back line noticed immediately. Mascherano stepped tighter to him. Mathieu shadowed the spaces behind. But the problem wasn't just Francesco's movement—it was how Arsenal moved around him. Özil had more space now. Walcott provided an outlet wide. Alexis was electric—buzzing along the left flank like he'd just stepped into another gear.
And then—lightning.
Minute 77.
Barcelona had just pushed high, again, with Alves nearly at the Arsenal box and Turan losing possession trying to dance through two defenders. Bellerín read it, snapped in, and won the ball cleanly.
He didn't wait.
A pass to Özil. Then to Elneny. The Egyptian didn't dawdle—he gave it straight to Alexis, who turned on a dime and drove forward.
The Camp Nou tensed.
Francesco darted forward to drag Mascherano with him, opening space. Walcott sprinted wide, giving options.
But Alexis saw none of them.
Instead, he slowed at the edge of the box—just for a heartbeat—then rolled it back diagonally to the top of the D.
Elneny was there.
No one expected him to shoot. Not from that distance. Not with Busquets closing. Not with Ter Stegen perfectly placed.
But he did.
A thundercrack.
The ball flew off his right foot like a missile—rising and dipping in the same breath, a perfect blend of violence and geometry. Ter Stegen dove with full extension.
Didn't matter.
The ball screamed past his fingertips and into the netting.
GOAL.
Arsenal 3, Barcelona 2.
On aggregate: 7–5.
Elneny sprinted, fists clenched, disbelief etched across his face. The Arsenal players swarmed him, arms around shoulders, pulling him into a roaring circle of celebration.
In the technical area, Wenger allowed himself a single pump of the fist.
They were leading—truly leading—for the first time in the entire tie.
But there were thirteen minutes left.
And thirteen minutes is a lifetime in Barcelona.
The stadium didn't die down. It doubled in volume. Flags waved furiously. Supporters stomped their feet. And on the pitch—Messi's eyes changed.
No panic. No gesturing.
Just a grim kind of knowing.
At the restart, Messi dropped even deeper than before. Kanté followed him, ever-present, a ghost at his shoulder. But Messi began to drift more intelligently now—feinting left, dipping right, forcing the Frenchman to adjust constantly.
Neymar stayed wider, trying to pull Bellerín out.
And still Arsenal held.
Elneny, now emboldened, kept his shape but didn't drop too deep. Kanté did the chasing. Özil retreated. Sánchez ran himself ragged. Even Walcott backtracked with focus.
But in the 85th minute, even perfection cracked.
It wasn't a mistake—just a sliver of brilliance in a game already filled with them.
Neymar received a pass wide left, dragged Bellerín out, then hesitated—just a pause. It was enough. With one touch, he skipped inside, avoided the double-team, and played an arcing ball toward the center channel.
Messi had ghosted behind Elneny. Behind Koscielny. Somehow, even behind Kanté.
The touch was perfect.
He didn't break stride.
And with the ball dropping perfectly to his left foot, Messi let it run across his body and clipped it—subtle, soft, devastating—past Ospina.
The Argentine didn't even celebrate.
He jogged back toward midfield, fingers pointing to the sky, face unreadable.
Barcelona 3, Arsenal 3.
Aggregate: 6–7.
They were one goal away again.
But Arsenal—this Arsenal—did not crumble.
The next five minutes were not football. They were war.
Barcelona surged. Every pass had purpose. Every cross burned with intention. Even Piqué, from the back, began stepping forward, joining the attacks like a desperate knight charging into the fray.
But Arsenal never lost their heads.
Koscielny and Van Dijk screamed across the line. Kanté cut off every shadow Messi cast. Elneny blocked. Bellerín chased. Walcott, of all people, tracked all the way back to strip Neymar of the ball in the 88th minute.
The clock ticked.
89:00.
The ball whipped in again—this time from Alves.
Cleared by Koscielny.
89:55.
A corner. Neymar to take.
Ospina came out—punch.
Francesco, back defending, nodded the loose ball forward.
90:30.
Barcelona won another free kick. 35 yards out. Too far to shoot. Messi shaped to play it in.
Ospina screamed. Arms flailed.
Ball in.
Chaos.
But again—it was Van Dijk. A leaping header that cleared the box and landed at Özil's feet.
He didn't try to run. He kicked it into the corner flag and chased it himself.
91:50.
Walcott joined him. They won a throw-in. The seconds ticked.
92:30.
Barcelona tried one more time.
Alves to Messi.
To Neymar.
To Suárez.
Blocked.
Elneny. Elneny again. Throw-in.
93:00.
And then—the whistle.
The sound cut through the Camp Nou like a sword.
Arsenal players froze for just a second—unbelieving.
Then Francesco raised his arms and roared.
The bench cleared. Wenger, who had remained statuesque for so long, finally smiled—wide, proud, triumphant—as his staff hugged around him.
Ospina fell to his knees.
Elneny pointed skyward.
Alexis collapsed into Francesco, who wrapped both arms around him.
And behind them, the scoreboard told the story:
Barcelona 3 – 3 Arsenal (Aggregate: 6 – 7)
One of the greatest Champions League knockout matches ever played. And Arsenal—this brave, daring, iron-willed Arsenal—had done it. They hadn't just survived the Camp Nou, but they has conquered it.
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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