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The night had finished revealing itself. And what it showed—through cheers, through goals, through cameras and quiet looks in the hallway—was something Francesco had always hoped might one day be true.
The morning sun hadn't quite burned through the gauze of winter mist that still hovered over Richmond when Francesco stepped out of his house. The cold kissed his cheeks, but he didn't mind—it helped him wake up fully, grounding him in the reality of a new day. The high from Barcelona hadn't faded, not entirely, but it had simmered into something quieter, more focused. There were more games to play. More stages to conquer.
He zipped up his Arsenal track jacket, the one with the red piping and gold cannon crest over the heart, and slid into the driver's seat of his BMW X5. His gym bag, already packed the night before, rested on the passenger side. A playlist hummed low through the speakers—one of the old-school mixes Leah had made him, full of Lauryn Hill and Stevie Wonder. Warm. Steady. Just what he needed.
The drive to Colney took about thirty-five minutes without traffic. Francesco didn't rush. He let the journey unfold like a breath. The trees lining the A316 blurred softly past, and the quiet drone of the road gave him room to think.
Tomorrow. Old Trafford.
It would be his first time playing there.
He'd been once before, as a youth team player—back when he was still all limbs and nervous energy, watching from the bench as the senior side warmed up under the cathedral-like shadow of the Stretford End. He remembered staring at the red seats and the sheer verticality of the stands, wondering if one day he'd be down there himself, boots laced, jersey clinging to his chest, heart thumping against the roar of 75,000 voices.
That day was tomorrow.
His phone buzzed once on the console. A message from Özil.
"Bring headphones. Ox is on DJ duty again."
"Also, Ramsey's wearing that awful camo jacket. Mentally prepare."
Francesco smiled. The banter was relentless with this group. But it kept things loose, especially before away days like this one. He quickly replied with a selfie of his coffee and dashboard:
"Already suffering. Send help."
He rolled through the last set of lights before Colney, the early morning frost still clinging to the roadside hedges. As he neared the main gate, he slowed down automatically. Not just because of the security checkpoint.
But because of them.
The fans.
A crowd had already gathered outside—more than usual for a pre-travel day. Easily over fifty people, young and old, pressed behind the low barriers, bundled in scarves and puffer jackets, clutching notebooks, phones, jerseys. And not just any jerseys.
Francesco could see them clearly now through his windshield.
His jersey.
Number 9.
"LEE" printed boldly across the back.
His heart did something funny—tightened, maybe. Or lifted. It was hard to tell the difference when it came to moments like this.
The security guard, a familiar face with thick gloves and a clipboard, leaned toward his window.
"Morning, champ," he said, smiling. "Quite the welcoming party today."
Francesco rolled down the window a few inches. "Guess I should've brought extra pens."
The guard chuckled. "You better stop, they'll start bringing tents and sleeping bags next."
He waved him through, but Francesco did something he hadn't done before on a day like this. He pulled over just past the entrance.
Switched the engine off.
Then stepped out.
Immediately, a ripple went through the crowd.
"There he is!"
"Francesco!"
"Overhead kick king!"
Phones went up. Arms waved. Kids on shoulders bounced with excitement. A girl—maybe eleven, maybe twelve—held a sign that read, 'Dream Big Like Francesco.'
He walked over slowly, the morning mist curling around his ankles, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Security moved closer, but Francesco waved them back gently. He could handle this.
He took his time.
Signed shirts. Took photos. Even chatted briefly with a few fans who'd been to the Barcelona match. One man, his voice choked, said his father had cried in the North Bank that night.
"You made us believe again," he said. "Like Thierry did. Like Dennis. You've got it, lad. Don't lose it."
Francesco didn't know what to say to that. So he just nodded. And meant it.
He spent almost ten minutes there—longer than he should have. But he didn't care. He could feel what this meant to them. What it meant to him.
Eventually, a member of staff jogged down the driveway.
"Franny! Coach is waiting! We're loading up in fifteen!"
He waved back. "Coming!"
He gave one last autograph—on a scarf someone handed him—then turned and jogged back toward his car. As he opened the door, the crowd behind him broke into spontaneous applause.
It hit him hard. Not the noise. But the warmth behind it.
He drove slowly down the lane to the main building, where the coach stood waiting, its Arsenal crest gleaming in the light.
Some of the boys were already there. Oxlade-Chamberlain, of course, was fiddling with the speaker system through his phone. Ramsey, true to Özil's warning, had indeed worn the hideous camo jacket—Francesco couldn't tell if it was meant for fashion or survival training. Alexis stood off to the side, earbuds in, shadowboxing the cold with tight little movements.
Wenger was there too, already talking quietly with Steve Bould and the team doctor. His face lit up slightly when Francesco approached.
"Morning," the manager said, eyes scanning him briefly. "Rested?"
"Still running on adrenaline, to be honest."
Wenger gave the faintest of smiles. "That's alright. Just don't let it carry you out of position tomorrow."
Francesco nodded. "Understood."
The rest of the squad trickled in. Theo Walcott with his ever-present Beats headphones. Flamini—suitcase perfectly packed, hair immaculate, like he was heading to a business summit in Geneva.
Eventually, they boarded the bus.
Francesco slid into his usual seat, next to Bellerín. The Spaniard had already taken off his boots and propped his socked feet up on the seat in front of him.
"You signing autographs out there like Beyoncé?" he asked, grinning.
Francesco shrugged. "Might've been the cold. People do strange things when they're freezing."
Bellerín laughed, then pulled out a deck of cards. "We've got at least an hour before we get to the airport. Fancy losing to me again at Gin Rummy?"
Francesco smirked. "Let's make it interesting."
And as the bus rumbled into motion, rolling away from Colney toward Heathrow, a quiet camaraderie settled over the players.
They were heading to war again. Old Trafford wasn't just another stadium. It was history. It was rivalry. It was the site of some of Arsenal's greatest triumphs—and some of their deepest scars.
The bus moved like a low, humming beast through Hertfordshire's winding roads, its tinted windows shielding the squad from the outside world but doing little to dampen the sense of momentum building inside.
Gin Rummy had turned into a bloodbath—Francesco winning three straight hands before Bellerín tossed his cards onto the table in mock disgust. Ramsey joined them next, still wearing that outrageous camo jacket, claiming it was "reversible and limited edition," though no one could tell which side was the supposed upgrade. Oxlade-Chamberlain was dancing in the aisle, fiddling with the Bluetooth speaker until Wenger finally gave him a look over his shoulder that made the music dial down to a respectable murmur. Özil napped under a hoodie, his long legs stretched into the aisle like tree roots. It was the sort of pre-travel chaos only a tightly knit team could enjoy—no real tension, just the quiet, unspoken knowledge that war was waiting.
By the time they reached Heathrow's private terminal, the sky had shifted into a cool gray palette. A light drizzle clung to the windshields of the surrounding vehicles, fogging slightly as the plane came into view. Arsenal's chartered aircraft stood sleek and ready, its nose angled skyward, the tail bearing the club crest alongside the Union Jack. There was something about seeing the cannon painted on a plane—it made everything feel bigger, more official. Less like boys chasing a ball, and more like a royal delegation flying into enemy territory.
The squad disembarked the bus with the usual rhythm of routine. Bags slung over shoulders. Jackets zipped up. Flamini carried an extra pair of gloves. Gibbs had his camera out already, filming something for the club's social media team.
Francesco paused at the foot of the stairs leading up into the aircraft, glancing up at the jet. He wasn't superstitious, but there was always a breath, a single beat, where he acknowledged how far this life had taken him. From concrete pitches and taped boots to custom flights and national press.
He climbed.
Inside, the seating was a balance of luxury and function. Leather recliners. Tables in the center for card games. Monitors showing flight maps and weather patterns. The coaching staff settled toward the front, Wenger by the window, fingers already tapping away on his tablet. Players were loosely scattered along the cabin, some pairing up, others claiming entire rows for themselves.
Francesco found his seat beside Theo Walcott, who immediately opened a bag of Haribo like it was an offering of peace.
"Don't tell the nutritionist," Theo said, winking.
Francesco took a cola bottle and grinned. "My lips are sealed."
The engines roared gently to life, muffled but present. A cabin crew member gave the safety briefing—half-listened to by most, ignored entirely by Ox, who had resumed his DJ duties via overhead speakers. Wenger allowed it for now. The mood was light.
The wheels lifted from the tarmac with a subtle jolt, and soon London disappeared beneath a thick carpet of cloud.
One hour. Just long enough for a nap, a chat, and the quiet mental rehearsals of runs, finishes, pressing triggers. Francesco plugged in his headphones, switched on a playlist Leah had titled Calm Before the Storm, and leaned back.
He didn't sleep.
He imagined the grass at Old Trafford. Imagined that goal he'd always dreamt of—cutting inside from the right, curling it past De Gea into the far post. He saw himself celebrate beneath the Stretford End, fists clenched, shirt stretched, the weight of decades of Arsenal struggle at Old Trafford flipping into release.
They landed without turbulence. The plane touching down in Manchester was barely felt—just a low bounce, a slight yaw to the left, then smooth braking.
Francesco pulled his hoodie up and glanced out the window. Rain again, soft but persistent. The kind of rain that turned the air thick and the grass fast.
Outside, the Arsenal team bus was waiting.
The airport protocol for away days was tight and efficient. Within twenty minutes of touchdown, they were out of the plane and into the dark navy coach, logos discreet but present. A few photographers waited behind metal barricades—paparazzi, maybe a freelance journo hoping to catch a shot of Özil sneezing or Alexis frowning. The usual.
As they boarded, a gust of cold Mancunian air caught Francesco full in the face. It wasn't London cold. It was heavier. Like it had seen more fights.
The ride to the hotel was quiet, the cityscape unfolding in gray boxes and misted windows. Old brick buildings. Narrow streets. Blue accents on lamp posts and signs. It felt like stepping into someone else's turf—familiar, but not quite home.
The hotel was one Arsenal always used when visiting Manchester. Five stars, but understated. No gold trim or ostentatious chandeliers—just clean lines, good food, and beds that didn't make your back regret football. The players filtered in, room cards distributed, bags whisked away by staff. Wenger reminded them of the itinerary with a casual, "Dinner in the lounge, eight sharp. No phones at the table."
Francesco's room overlooked a quiet part of the city—an office block and a park, mostly empty. He stood by the window for a while, watching the rain chase itself across the glass.
That night passed in a hush. Dinner, a tactical video session, and then lights out.
Francesco woke early.
He always did on game days. Didn't matter how late the night before had gone or how many alarms he'd set—his body simply knew. He rolled out of bed, stretched, and cracked the window open. The air was sharp. Bracing. Old Trafford weather.
He showered, dressed in the team tracksuit, and headed downstairs.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Eggs. Toast. A little fruit. Hydration tablets in water glasses. The staff moved like ghosts, refilling plates, nodding quietly, clearing space. The players ate in clusters—some chatting, others in full monk mode.
Francesco sat with Bellerín and Cazorla. The Spaniards kept the mood light, arguing over who had the better first touch—Santi joking that his left foot had been kissed by God, and Hector countering that it had probably been kissed by his grandmother instead.
At 9:15 sharp, Wenger stood.
"Bus leaves in fifteen. Final checks. Bring everything."
The message was clear. From this moment on, the match had begun.
Back to the rooms. Boots checked. Shin pads. Lucky socks. Some players changed into compression gear. Others prayed, or stretched, or just stared into the middle distance.
Francesco packed his headphones, double-checked his boots—both pairs, just in case—and zipped up his kit bag. He paused at the mirror before leaving, exhaled, and looked himself in the eye.
"Let's go."
The team bus rolled toward Old Trafford in near silence.
Inside, the vibe had shifted completely.
Headphones were on. Some heads were bowed in prayer. Flamini was speaking softly with Coquelin, likely about midfield rotations. Koscielny stared ahead, jaw tight. Ox wasn't dancing anymore.
Francesco sat with Özil this time. They didn't speak.
They didn't have to.
As the bus pulled into the underground entrance of Old Trafford, Francesco saw it for the first time from pitch level. The vast concrete structure. The looming signage. The echo of the stadium tunnel. It was like walking into a temple. And not one that welcomed visitors.
They filed off the bus, passing security and stewards, then through the underbelly of the ground. Walls painted in stark red. Posters of past glories. Sir Alex's stern gaze immortalized in framed quotes. Every inch of the corridor screamed legacy.
But Arsenal didn't flinch.
This wasn't 2004. This wasn't that tunnel.
They entered the dressing room. Clean. Cold. Rows of kits hanging like armor.
Red shirts with white sleeves. Each one a statement.
Francesco found his spot. Number 9. His name stitched clean and proud. He placed his bag underneath the bench, slipped off his tracksuit, and pulled on the training top.
The warm-up kit was familiar—gray with red accents, lightweight and snug. He slid on his socks, tied his boots loose, then stood and did a few dynamic stretches.
All around, the others were doing the same.
Walcott tugged on his sleeves. Giroud adjusted his headband. Monreal rotated his hips slowly, expression unreadable. Behind them, Wenger gave the nod.
"Alright. Let's see the pitch."
The tunnel was tighter than expected. Dimly lit. The kind of corridor that kept secrets.
And then—sunlight.
Or at least the Manchester version of it. A pale, gray wash through the open air.
Old Trafford opened before them like a cathedral. Red seats rising like cliffs. The grass glistening, stripes cut in symmetrical perfection. Francesco blinked once.
Then smiled.
He jogged onto the pitch with the others, feeling the ground under his boots, soft and slightly wet. The first touch was good. Clean. The ball skipped on the surface, but stayed true.
Francesco joined Bellerín and Coquelin for rondos. One-touch passing, tight space. Then shooting drills. Sprint sequences. A few shadow plays in formation.
The crisp Manchester air cut right through the dampness that clung to every blade of grass at Old Trafford's edge as Arsenal's training concluded. Players jogged back toward the tunnel in a quiet cluster—boots soft on the hollow concrete, breath visible in the chill. Francesco paused under the overhang, arms tingling from rewarmed limbs, watching teammates shake off the session.
Wenger's tone was precise and calm as the door swung closed behind them. Inside the dressing room, the lighting felt subdued, flickering off the polished wooden benches and clean kit hooks lining the walls. Aromas of chalky synthetic turf still hung in the air. Kits—damp from warm-ups—lay like armor in neat rows.
Francesco sank onto his bench. Number 9. Captain. He ran his fingers over the embroidered letters on his shirt—LEE—feeling the smooth fabric and the weight of expectation.
Around him, teammates were going through familiar rituals. Cazorla laced up his boots with graceful determination. Koscielny tapped his shin pads into place. Ramsey slipped into his double-studded training shorts. Bellerín pulled on his gloves, stretching each finger with focused intensity. Even Özil, usually elusive in his preparation, adjusted his socks with deliberate calm. Everything felt ritualistic, sacred.
At exactly twelve minutes to kick-off, Wenger entered. His overcoat hung on a nearby chair. Team, he said: formation today, 4‑2‑3‑1. Simplest of shapes. Foundation. Stability. He elaborated:
Goalkeeper: Petr Čech.
Defenders: from left to right—Monreal, van Dijk, Koscielny, Bellerín.
Double pivot: Ramsey and Kante.
Attacking midfield trio: Özil centrally with Alexis Sanchez on the left wing, Theo Walcott on the right.
Striker and captain: Francesco Lee.
Substitutes packed on the adjacent bench: Ospina, Mertesacker, Gibbs, Coquelin, Iwobi, Welbeck, and Giroud—all ready.
He emphasized the usual: compact, disciplined, balanced. Press when they build, neutralize midfield, make them chase. Respond to their frontline runs with width. Alexis and Theo to cut inside off the flanks; Özil to orbit in the half-spaces; Francesco to hold service, drop into pockets, lead the press. He finished with: "You know what to do. Play as we always do—with our shape, with our speed, with our heart. And never lose your structure." Then he nodded and left, leaving a room that smelled of damp jerseys and anticipation.
Silence followed.
Francesco exhaled, feeling adrenaline tighten his chest anew. Captain's armband slid over his sleeve. He rolled his shoulders, visualizing the match flow, the first ball down the channels, the pace of Alexis, the drive of Theo, the curving through balls from Özil, the positioning of Kante and Ramsey inside.
They stood, walking single file toward the tunnel. Referees waited in crisp black suits at the edge of the door. The four captains—Arsenal's and Manchester United's—joined them. Francesco inhaled slowly under the dim corridor lights.
When the tunnel opened onto the pitch, it felt like emerging from a stone cavern into a wide open plain. The green felt rolled out, immaculate. Red seats curled upward like silent witnesses. Ribbons of weathered concrete. Rain tapped weakly on the roof. A few thousand early arrivals dripped into place, voracious for this fixture. The hum in the air was low but charged—like a held breath.
Francesco met Michael Carrick at the center circle. Main referee, serious, upright, considerate. They faced the coin toss. Francesco flipped a 50‑pence, watched it rattle in Carrick's palm.
Carrick announced Manchester United had won the toss and elected kick off.
He nodded: "All the best." Referee's finger into the sleeve: whistle poised. Franceco stepped back, tightening his gloves.
At 2:01 pm, the whistle blew.
Manchester United kicked off, playing it backward to Schneiderlin. Immediate energy. The black-red of United rushed forward. Arsenal settled.
In the sixth minute, Cech made a big save. As Lingard latched onto a through ball behind Monreal. He rounded Čech—but Čech sprawled, blade-of-the-boot combination to disruption. Reflected off knee to touch—Čech's first, United's first big opening.
In the eight minute, because of Bellerín overlapped. Cross low. Özil's first-time flick to past the box. Francesco darting onto it—shot low across goal, De Gea's outstretched leg deflected it for a corner. Momentum braking into Arsenal's.
Then Ramsey shoot a long strike from outside the box—top corner bound. De Gea flew, tipped it over. The stadium breathed.
Then another white strip venture. As Scheiderlin header flicked from small corridor. Pezzo de resistance. But Čech reactive, palms it away.
In the twentieth minute, both keepers had four saves each. Čech's tall and imposing—his hands deflecting dangerous corners, his composure steady. De Gea accurate and agile, body shaped to match deep strikes.
As Arsenal retaining shape. With the double pivot of Ramsey and Kante that closing channels like twin sentries. Kante's lung-busting bursts into space. Özil drifting into pockets, switching play from left to right: Alexis shifting to center, Walcott racing the sideline. Francesco holding up play, back to goal, letting ball spin through his legs.
At the twenty-minute mark, the game remained 0‑0, but nothing felt even. Arsenal's first twenty had been disciplined. Their shape intact. United bright, but not lethal. A rhythm had been cloaked in pressure—Arsenal's attempt to wrestle it.
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.
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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: 38
Goal: 58
Assist: 9
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