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He'd broken United's fortress. He'd led the comeback. And at Old Trafford—against a home side riding high—Arsenal had triumphed.
Then the days pass to 5 march 2016, as the engine purred beneath Francesco's feet as the early morning light broke across the rooftops of Richmond. His BMW X5 glided down quiet suburban roads, the sky above streaked in dull, overcast silver. The usual crispness of an early March chill hung in the air. Not winter's bite, not yet spring's softness—just that in-between uncertainty that mirrored something in his own chest.
His body still ached—not painfully, but in that satisfying way you carry the memory of a war fought well. His muscles had fire in them from Old Trafford, that mad, unrelenting seven-goal theatre of nerves. He could still feel the pressure of Fosu-Mensah on his back, the weight of Rojo's hesitation in the opening goal, and the rush of adrenaline when Özil's curling shot kissed the net to make it 3–3.
And then Welbeck. That damn, glorious finish in the 91st. Francesco could still see the ripple of the net and hear the roar from the away end. He didn't even remember reaching Alexis or Özil before he was wrapped in celebration, in disbelief, in the kind of wild catharsis only football at its best could offer.
But now it was the North London derby. And everything that had come before it—Barcelona, Manchester United, even the misstep against Swansea—had to be buried.
As the roads opened up and the city's early traffic began to blink to life, Francesco leaned into the wheel, sunglasses shielding tired eyes. His thoughts drifted to Colney. To the dressing room. To what this match—this match—would mean.
White Hart Lane. The old cage. The second derby of the season.
Today? It was time for something more.
Three days earlier had brought a different kind of drama.
The Emirates had been expectant but weary that night. The Barcelona triumph and the subsequent Old Trafford spectacle had left fans riding waves of emotion. But Swansea at home? That was supposed to be manageable. A chance to regain league footing. To consolidate.
Wenger had rotated, slightly. Not out of disrespect, but necessity. Campbell started on the right. Gibbs came in for Monreal. Coquelin and Kante had been rested, replaced by Elneny beside Ramsey which give Elneny his debut game for Arsenal.
Francesco started, of course. He always did now. The burden didn't weigh heavy anymore. It lived in his bones.
And for a while, it looked like Arsenal would coast.
In the 15th minute, Özil found space between the lines and pinged a diagonal to Campbell, who darted in behind Fabianski. One touch to steady. One to strike. A clean finish. 1–0.
But then came Swansea's reply.
Routledge, still quick at 31, darted into the gap left by a high Gibbs and latched onto a lofted pass from Sigurdsson. He didn't panic. Čech came out but couldn't close fast enough. A dinked finish. 1–1.
The Emirates sighed collectively. Francesco clenched his jaw.
He'd stayed quiet in the first half, isolated. Swansea packed the midfield. Their defenders doubled up when he moved into channels. They played smart. No risks. Arsenal found themselves pressing with growing frustration.
The second half opened with urgency—and Francesco responded.
In the 54th minute, Özil again was the spark. He drifted wide, sucked two markers out, and zipped the ball inside to Ramsey, who immediately turned and slipped it to Francesco.
He didn't need to think.
A deft touch with his left to beat Ashley Williams' outstretched boot, and a bullet shot across the keeper with his right. It was harsh. Clean. Clinical.
2–1. The Emirates roared. Francesco raised one arm skyward and exhaled deeply.
But joy, as it often is in this league, was fleeting.
Ashley Williams atoned. On a corner in the 74th, chaos in the box led to a deflected ball falling kindly to him. He swung. Through bodies. Past Čech. 2–2.
The rest of the game? Frustration. Sputtering chances. Possession without incision.
At full-time, Francesco bent over, hands on knees. He wasn't angry. Just… unfinished. He had wanted that win. Craved it. And so had they all.
Still, no time to sulk. The real mountain came next.
Back to the present day, the gates of Colney opened as Francesco pulled in. A few kids waited outside, holding shirts and Sharpies, bundled in Arsenal scarves. He rolled the window down, signed quickly, offered a tired but warm smile, and drove through.
Inside the training facility, the mood was clipped but not tense.
Players filtered in. Most in black coats and trainers. Özil had headphones on. Alexis looked wired already, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Giroud was chatting with Flamini. Bellerín checked his phone, then snapped a gum bubble before slipping it back into his coat.
Francesco found his locker and slid in silently. Ramsey passed him, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. Koscielny nodded from across the room. No speeches. Not yet.
Just the knowledge of what was coming.
The itinerary was strict. No training today. Only light stretching and recovery prep before the coach departed for White Hart Lane.
As Francesco tied his boots loosely to stay limber, Wenger passed behind him and stopped.
"You rested?" the manager asked quietly.
Francesco turned. "Enough."
Wenger offered the faintest smile. "We'll need the whole of you today."
Francesco nodded. "You'll have it."
The team bus was quiet. Not silent—but low hums of conversation wrapped in concentration.
Walcott watched video clips on his tablet. Özil stared out the window, lost in thought. Alexis nodded to music in his headphones, his fingers twitching as though already playing the match.
Francesco sat beside Welbeck. The hero from Old Trafford had barely stopped grinning all morning.
"You ready to go again?" Danny asked, nudging him lightly.
Francesco smirked. "You going to score the winner again?"
Welbeck laughed. "Nah. Your turn."
He leaned back, arms folded behind his head. "But seriously—Spurs won't sit back like Swansea did. It'll be open. Ragged. They'll want it as bad as we do."
Francesco nodded. "Then we beat them to every loose ball."
"Exactly."
The coach rumbled forward through North London, police escort parting traffic as the streets narrowed toward Tottenham territory. Soon, windows revealed scattered patches of Spurs jerseys. Faces watched. Fingers pointed.
Francesco knew they were already sizing him up.
The stadium had changed over the years, but the feel of it hadn't. White Hart Lane was always a cauldron—tight, hot, sharp with noise. Spurs fans were already in voice as Arsenal took to the pitch.
Warm-up drills were brisk. Francesco went through short sprints, one-touch passing with Özil and Alexis, then finishing exercises. He bent a low shot around cones and into the bottom corner. A ripple of approval came from behind the dugout—Wenger, arms folded, watching.
They returned to the dressing room just as the sound outside grew louder—muffled, rolling, a tide of noise swelling in the tight seams of White Hart Lane. The corridors buzzed with staff moving quickly, stewards checking clearances, boots thudding lightly on tile. Francesco stepped through the doorway into Arsenal's changing area, still adjusting his training top as he felt the temperature shift—cool in the tunnel, warmer in here. Nerves. Breath. Focus.
Everything was laid out. Shirts hung like war banners on polished pegs. Red against the pale cream walls, numbers sharp and defiant. Beneath them, folded shorts, socks, individual bottles of electrolytes, compression wraps, shin guards arranged like ritual tools.
Francesco's kit was as always: number 9, bold on the back, "LEE" arched above it. The captain's armband rested on Mertesacker's seat—not his today. Not this time. Per was leading them.
The air smelled of liniment, freshly unwrapped leather, and anticipation.
Wenger stood in front of the whiteboard. His suit was immaculate. Dark blue tie straight. But his eyes held the restless flicker of a man calculating probabilities in real time.
"All right, boys," he said, voice soft at first. A few players turned, Özil taking off his headphones. Walcott clicked his gum once and leaned forward. Ramsey sat with a stretch band still around his thighs.
Wenger tapped the board twice.
"This is how we'll go."
He gestured to the formation he'd outlined: 4-3-3.
"Petr in goal," he began. Cech nodded, already in his keeper's under-armour. "Nacho on the left, Hector on the right. Centre backs—Virgil, and Per."
Mertesacker straightened from tying his laces. His armband was already strapped tight. Virgil Van Dijk bumped fists with him silently.
"N'Golo at the base," Wenger continued, and Kante gave a sharp nod. "Aaron and Mesut will operate just ahead of him. The press and movement between the lines must be constant. You know that."
A pause, then:
"Theo on the right, Alexis on the left. Francesco… up top."
Wenger turned to him now, eyes lingering. "Do what you did at Old Trafford. Lead from the front. Pull their line apart. And if it comes—take the chance."
Francesco gave a small nod. "I will."
"The bench," Wenger added, turning again. "Macey, Chambers, Gibbs, Elneny, Francis, Danny, and Olivier."
Welbeck was lacing up in the corner and gave Francesco a wink. "Don't worry, I'll be ready for the 90th minute again."
A ripple of quiet laughter passed. It helped—tension cracking for just a second.
Wenger stepped back, arms folded now.
"They will press," he said. "They will bite. And they will believe that at home, they are stronger than us. But you—" He let his eyes roam across the room. "—you have been to war. Barcelona. Old Trafford. This? This is another field, but you are the same men. You know what to do."
Silence. Then the scratching sound of jerseys being pulled down over bodies, Velcro fastening shin pads, studs clacking against tile.
Francesco tugged his shirt on slowly. He liked the feel of it—like armour but lighter. The fabric clung snug across his shoulders, then loosened down the sides. He pulled the collar once, made sure the tape on his fingers was tight, then sat back and exhaled.
Mertesacker was already moving toward the door. The kit man handed him the armband. Per looked at it for a moment—maybe out of reverence, maybe just to feel the weight—then slid it on.
"All right, lads," he said, voice calm. "Tunnel."
They filed out, boots echoing in staggered rhythm against the floor.
The tunnel at White Hart Lane was narrower than most. Not claustrophobic—but close. Francesco could smell the pitch ahead of them, that damp, clipped-grass scent mixing with fresh paint and adrenaline.
Tottenham were already lined up. White kits, navy shorts. Hugo Lloris at the front, stoic. Behind him, Harry Kane, face calm but unreadable. Dier looked up once, met Francesco's eyes, then looked away.
Francesco flexed his hands at his sides. He heard Bellerín tapping his studs against the wall behind him. Alexis hummed lowly under his breath. Özil hadn't blinked since they got into the tunnel.
It was happening again—the slow build to chaos.
The referee stood between the lines, checking watches. One assistant double-checked boot colours, another took note of the captains.
Then the signal came.
"Let's go."
And suddenly, like a gate releasing thoroughbreds, they emerged into the blinding light and noise of White Hart Lane.
The noise hit like a wave—sharp, hostile, unrelenting. Spurs fans screamed, whistled, chanted. The stands were so close, the sound poured down onto the pitch like hot rain.
But Francesco didn't hear any of it—not really.
He stepped onto the grass and looked up once—just once—at the corner where the Arsenal fans sat penned behind steel and stewards. Red flags waved. A banner read "RED IS LONDON."
He turned back toward the centre circle.
Walcott jogged past and bumped his shoulder lightly. "Let's ruin their weekend, yeah?"
Francesco gave a quick smile. "Every time."
The players spread into position for the handshakes. Formalities.
Then they broke into their pre-kickoff circles.
Mertesacker spoke to the back four, calm and deep. Kante clapped his hands, already bouncing on his heels.
Francesco stood beside Ramsey and Özil.
"This is where we show them," he said quietly.
Özil didn't speak, just gave him a light slap to the chest.
Then the ref raised his whistle to his lips.
The referee's whistle pierced the roar, and like that, the match ignited.
From the very first touch, it was exactly as expected—aggressive, tight, twitching with nerves. Spurs pressed high. Arsenal pressed right back. There were no feelers, no easing in. This wasn't the kind of game where players took the opening minutes to settle. This was blood sport wrapped in Premier League silk. It was chaos with shape. Emotion with discipline. And no one on that pitch—white or red—wanted to blink first.
The first ten minutes were a blur of collisions and sprints. Walcott spun inside Rose and won a throw. Kane tried to isolate Mertesacker but was bodied away. Eriksen's feet danced through midfield, but Kante hounded every inch of his shadow. Özil, gliding ghost-like between Dier and Dembele, found early pockets but Spurs' back line was well-drilled.
And still—no shots yet. Only tension, mounting.
Then the goalkeepers went to work.
On the 12th minute, Spurs broke through with Kane dropping deep and spinning a long pass out wide to Lamela. The Argentine cut inside Monreal, let fly from 22 yards. Čech saw it late—but leapt. Full stretch. Fingertips. Just enough to guide it wide.
Francesco nodded in appreciation as he jogged back into position.
Then on the 14th minute, Arsenal responded. Ramsey pushed forward on a one-two with Özil. The Welshman cut inside, spotted Francesco peeling away from Alderweireld. A low pass—Francesco struck on the half-turn, right foot flashing. Lloris down sharply. Palmed it wide.
The away end gasped. It was opening up.
Then on the 17th minute, another Spurs attack. Eriksen wriggled between Ramsey and Kante. He clipped a soft chip to the far post—Kane met it with his head, aimed low into the corner. Čech again. Safe hands. Experience. No panic.
Then on the 19th minute, Arsenal returned fire. Alexis danced down the left, beat Walker with a shimmy, then slid it square to Özil at the edge of the box. Özil waited for the angle to open—fired low. Lloris parried, body flying left. Walcott nearly tapped the rebound, but Vertonghen cleared off the line with a desperate lunge.
Four saves each. And the defenders weren't taking a breath, either. Van Dijk, towering, headed clear twice in the span of a minute. Bellerín blocked a shot with his ribcage. On the other end, Alderweireld dove in front of Francesco's second touch inside the box, and Dier swiped a clearance off Ramsey's toes.
It was breathtaking. It was tightrope football.
And it felt like something had to give.
Minute 25. It did.
The move began innocently—Kante reclaiming possession just outside his own box, toe-poking the ball away from Eriksen before sliding it to Özil.
Özil turned, looked up, and everything slowed.
There was a rhythm to Mesut Özil's passing that defied logic. It wasn't about sight—it was about sensing where space would exist half a second later.
Francesco was already moving.
He darted between Wimmer and Alderweireld like water cutting through rock. The run wasn't blindingly fast. It didn't need to be. It was timed. Dead-on. Whisper-perfect.
Özil's left foot curled the pass through the thin gap like a scalpel. It bent, kissed the turf once, and landed on Francesco's path just outside the box.
He didn't even take a second touch.
Lloris came flying out, arms wide. But Francesco wasn't looking at him.
His eyes were fixed on the bottom right corner.
And that's where the ball went.
One sweep of the right foot. Precision. No panic.
It skidded low past the keeper's left boot and struck the netting hard enough to snap it back.
1–0 Arsenal.
The away end detonated.
Arms shot into the air. Red shirts spilled forward against the barriers. A banner unfurled—"SOUTH STAND IS RED TOO"—just behind a steward already yelling into his radio.
Francesco wheeled away, arms outstretched, face alight with fire. Özil caught up to him first—didn't say anything—just hugged him from behind, then whispered something in German. Probably something beautiful and brutal. Then the rest came. Alexis leapt onto his back. Ramsey slapped his head. Walcott screamed, "That's the f***ing way, mate!"
The team sprinted back into their own half.
No one was gloating. Not really.
They all knew: this wasn't the end.
This was only the beginning.
Back in the technical area, Wenger barely moved. Just a soft clap, a slight dip of the head. His face was more calculating than celebratory. As if to say: Good. Now let's control the game.
Then on the 35th minute, Arsenal doubled their lead.
It came at the end of another spell of pressure, a kind of pressure that wasn't just about territory or possession—it was about mood. The kind of pressure that made the stadium itself feel like it was about to crack. The kind where every second pass from Spurs was becoming looser, less confident. Where the crowd began shouting a half-second earlier than usual. Where the red shirts didn't just look faster—they looked inevitable.
It began with a Spurs throw-in deep in Arsenal's half, a chance for them to mount something. But Mertesacker, towering like a lighthouse in a storm, read it. He stepped across Kane, nudged the ball back into Kante's path, and suddenly it was Arsenal flowing downhill again.
Kante found Özil. Özil found Alexis. Alexis paused, holding off Dier with a little hip feint, before rolling it back to Ramsey. Spurs scrambled to regain shape.
Ramsey didn't force it. He slid it sideways to Monreal, who then cut inside—drawing Lamela and Walker with him. Then Monreal turned and swept it across the backline, and the tempo shifted again.
Van Dijk. To Bellerín.
And that's where the gear changed.
Bellerín had seen it earlier—Rose wasn't tracking runs well. Maybe the heat was getting to him. Maybe it was the hangover of Walcott spinning him in the first ten minutes. Maybe it was just nerves. Either way, the Spaniard pushed it forward and ran.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't feint. He just sprinted.
Ramsey saw it. Drifted.
Walcott dragged Wimmer wide with a clever curve of a decoy run, and that little motion tore open just enough space for the timing to fit.
Bellerín reached the edge of the final third and clipped the ball not flat, not floated, but driven—one of those crosses that asked questions. Hard, fast, shoulder height, skipping just once before the six-yard box.
Ramsey came crashing into the gap like a storm.
He didn't wait. He didn't check his run. He threw himself at the ball like he'd been chasing it for years.
Left boot. Contact. Clean.
The shot didn't curl. It didn't bend. It simply roared forward—a blunt, furious rocket that Lloris had no chance of stopping. It thudded into the roof of the net with such violence it seemed to echo.
2–0.
And now it wasn't just a lead—it was a statement.
The red shirts surged again. Ramsey, sliding to his knees just in front of the away end, let out a shout so primal it looked like it hurt. Bellerín was on him seconds later, wrapping both arms around his neck and grinning like a schoolboy who'd just seen his best mate score in the playground.
Francesco arrived last—panting, smiling, not quite shouting—just thumping Ramsey on the back, once, twice.
"Mate," Ramsey said, between breaths, "we f***ing own this place today."
And for the first time, Francesco believed it.
All around them, the white of White Hart Lane had faded into something quieter. A nervous hum. Hands on heads. Heads in hands. Spurs fans weren't booing—they were stunned. And worse than stunned: they were starting to fear.
In the Arsenal technical area, Wenger gave one more clap. But still no smile. His arms folded again. His eyes shifted down the pitch—not to the players celebrating, but to the three who hadn't: Kante, Özil, and Monreal, already shifting into formation. Already preparing for the next ten minutes.
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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: 41
Goal: 61
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