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The footage of Francesco pointing to the badge had gone viral. It was already being printed on T-shirts. Someone started a petition to build a statue. #CaptainLee was trending worldwide.
The Camp Nou night faded into memory the way great storms do—never really gone, just lingering in the air, in the way people spoke to them in the streets, in the way cameras seemed to hang on Francesco's face a fraction longer now.
But there was no time to bask. Not in England. Not in April. The season doesn't wait for you to finish celebrating—it drags you forward, breathless, whether you're ready or not.
For Arsenal, the message was clear: what they had done in Barcelona would mean nothing if they didn't back it up at home.
Goodison Park smelled of salt and rain that Saturday. The wind off the Mersey cut through coats and scarves, but the travelling Arsenal fans sang as if the cold didn't exist. Maybe it didn't, not for them.
Wenger made changes—rotation was necessary now. The legs that had run themselves ragged against Messi and Suárez couldn't be flogged again three days later. Francesco started on the bench, wrapped in a padded jacket, next to Coquelin and Mertesacker.
Danny Welbeck led the line. Alex Iwobi, all lean muscle and fearless touches, played wide left. Alexis roamed, of course—because trying to keep Alexis Sánchez in one place was like trying to tell the wind where to blow.
From the first whistle, Everton looked… flat. The roar from their fans was there, but the bite in their play wasn't. Arsenal smelled it. The first goal came early—Welbeck, darting in behind, slipping it low past Joel Robles.
Francesco clapped from the bench, smiling. It was the kind of goal you love to see as a forward—movement, patience, timing.
The second came from Iwobi, just before half-time. A slick counter, Alexis threading a ball between two defenders, Iwobi smashing it home with the composure of a man twice his age.
By the time the second half hit its rhythm, Arsenal were in control. Wenger called Francesco over in the 78th minute.
"Go enjoy yourself," the gaffer said, smiling in that understated Wenger way.
Francesco jogged on in the 80th, and within five minutes, the ball was at his feet in the box. A shimmy, a cut onto his right, and he drilled it into the bottom corner.
3–0. Job done.
The away end roared his name. He raised a hand in thanks but didn't milk it. The Barcelona night had been epic, but in the Premier League, every three points mattered just as much—maybe more.
If Goodison Park had been business-like, Wembley a week later was war.
FA Cup Semi-Final. Arsenal vs. Crystal Palace.
The air at Wembley always had a charge to it on days like this—half joy, half dread. Lose here, and the whole season feels emptier. Win, and the chance for silverware stays alive.
Palace drew first blood.
Yannick Bolasie, all power and swagger, cut inside from the left and unleashed a shot that Cech couldn't quite get down to in time. 1–0.
The Palace fans went mad. Their end of Wembley was a wall of bouncing colour and noise.
Francesco felt the jolt. You could feel the energy shift in moments like that—it was like someone had flipped a table in the middle of the room.
But Arsenal didn't panic. They prodded, passed, pressed. The equaliser came through him—Francesco darting across the near post to meet a Monreal cross, flicking it just enough to wrong-foot the keeper.
1–1.
He didn't celebrate wildly. Just a clenched fist, a nod. Game back on.
Minutes later, Alexis made it 2–1. The Chilean's strike was pure Alexis—low, sharp, unstoppable. The Arsenal end erupted.
But Palace weren't here to roll over. Connor Wickham powered through the middle and smashed in a leveller, 2–2.
It was getting tense now. Both sets of fans sensed extra-time creeping in.
Then, late on, Theo Walcott—quiet for most of the game—came alive. He darted into the box, met a through ball, and guided it home with that coolness that had made him a fixture for so many years.
3–2.
The noise was deafening.
When the whistle blew, Arsenal had done it—they were in their third consecutive FA Cup Final.
On the pitch, Francesco hugged Theo first. "Big goal," he said, grinning.
Theo laughed. "About time, eh?"
Wenger shook hands with Pardew at the touchline, face calm, but his eyes gave him away. This was big. This was momentum.
The win over Palace had felt like a gust of wind in Arsenal's sails — not just because it put them in yet another FA Cup Final, but because of how it had been done. They'd been hit, wobbled, and still found the resolve to stand tall. Wembley nights had a way of sharpening a team's hunger, and as they filed back into the dressing room that evening, the players carried themselves with the quiet confidence of men who knew they were building something bigger than a single trophy.
But the season's heartbeat was still the league.
The following weekend at the Emirates, Watford were the next ones to test Arsenal's momentum. Well — try to test it.
It was one of those rare afternoons where everything clicked, where the Emirates crowd hummed with the certainty of a result before the first half had even ended. The sun broke through the clouds over north London, and the pitch glistened from a light pre-match drizzle, the kind of surface that begged for slick passing and one-touch football.
From the off, Arsenal were ruthless. Watford barely touched the ball in the opening five minutes, the red shirts swarming them like a pack of wolves. The first goal came almost too easily — Alexis Sánchez drifting into the box, receiving a perfectly weighted pass from Mesut Özil. One touch to set, another to roll it past Heurelho Gomes. 1–0, and Sánchez's celebration was half roar, half grin — as if to say, we're not slowing down now.
Francesco was next. The move started deep in midfield, Coquelin snapping into a tackle and feeding Iwobi, who spotted Francesco peeling off his marker. The pass was sharp, the first touch sharper. He cut inside, glanced up, and curled a low effort inside the far post. Classic striker's goal.
The Emirates loved it. He pointed to the fans as he jogged back to halfway, as if to let them in on the secret — this was only getting better.
By now, Watford looked shaken. Arsenal were cutting them open at will, and the third came from Iwobi, who capped off a spell of gorgeous interplay with a confident finish inside the box.
And then — in a moment that summed up the team's swagger — Héctor Bellerín got in on the act. Bursting down the right like his boots were on fire, he played a quick one-two with Alexis, then found himself in the box with the ball sitting up nicely. He didn't hesitate — lashing it into the roof of the net to make it 4–0 before halftime.
The second half was about control. Arsenal moved the ball with a surgeon's precision, slowing the tempo just enough to manage their energy — but still hungry for more. Theo Walcott, who'd been chasing runs behind all afternoon, finally got his reward. In the 68th minute, a long diagonal ball from Gabriel caught Watford's back line square, and Theo raced onto it, steadied himself, and tucked it away with ease.
5–0. No drama. No let-up.
By the final whistle, the Emirates was bouncing, chants rolling around the stands as the scoreboard flashed its dominance. It wasn't just the three points — it was the statement. This was a team peaking at the right time, the attack humming, the goals coming from everywhere.
And in the back of everyone's mind, there was the knowledge that something even bigger was coming.
The morning sun poured through the blinds in Francesco's Richmond home, the kind of crisp, clear London day that hinted at spring but still carried a chill in the air. He was already up, coffee half-drunk, gym bag leaning against the wall by the door.
Today wasn't just another matchday. Today was Atletico Madrid.
The draw had been kind to no one — Arsenal had fought their way past Barcelona, only to be rewarded with Diego Simeone's warriors. Atletico weren't flashy in the way Barça were; they didn't hypnotise you with possession. They ground you down. They lived for moments when you blinked. And in Antoine Griezmann, they had a forward who could kill you in an instant.
Francesco zipped up his jacket and stepped outside, the brisk air biting at his cheeks. His BMW X5 sat in the driveway, black paint glinting in the sunlight. He slid into the driver's seat, the faint smell of leather and last night's cologne hanging in the air.
The engine purred to life, and he eased out of Richmond, the quiet streets giving way to the busier morning roads. He didn't blast music — not today. Instead, a low hum of instrumental beats played through the speakers, something to keep him steady. His mind was already on the patterns of the game — where the spaces might appear, how Godín liked to step up aggressively, how Koke would try to cut the passing lanes.
As he merged onto the motorway, he passed pockets of Arsenal fans making their way into London, scarves out the windows, horns blaring. A few recognised him, even at speed — one car full of teenagers overtook him just to hold up an Arsenal flag at the window, their grins stretching ear to ear.
Colney wasn't far now.
Pulling into the training ground's car park, Francesco could already see the others arriving. Sánchez was leaning against his own car, phone in hand, laughing at something on the screen. Özil walked past with his headphones on, hood up, eyes calm as always. The air around the place felt electric — the kind of charge you only got in European knockout football.
Inside, the mood was a mix of focus and ease. Some of the lads cracked jokes in the changing area; others sat in their own corners, mentally walking through the night ahead. Wenger moved quietly among them, offering a word here, a pat on the shoulder there.
"Francesco," he said, catching his striker before he could head out for the warm-up session. "Tonight, be patient. They want you to get frustrated. Don't give them that. When the moment comes… you'll know."
Francesco nodded. "Got it, boss."
Francesco had just finished tying the laces of his training boots when his phone buzzed on the bench beside him. He didn't usually take calls in the dressing area before a session, but the name glowing on the screen made him reach for it without a second thought.
Leah.
He pressed the phone to his ear, leaning slightly away from the low chatter of teammates around him.
"Hey," he said, voice soft, the kind of tone he only ever used with her. "You up?"
Leah laughed on the other end, a warm, easy sound that cut through the crisp morning air of Colney like sunlight through a window. "Up? Francesco, it's nearly noon. I've been up for ages."
He smiled to himself. "Fair enough. I just—" he glanced down at the floor, lowering his voice a touch, "—was wondering if you're coming to the game tonight?"
"Of course," she said without hesitation, as if the question was absurd. "You think I'd miss a Champions League quarter-final? Not a chance."
The knot in his chest loosened a little. He didn't need her there to play well, but knowing she'd be in the stands — watching, supporting — it always added something extra, something he couldn't quite explain.
"Good," he murmured. "It's… it's a big one tonight. You know that."
"I do," she replied, her tone softening. "That's why I've invited your parents to watch with me."
That caught him off guard. "Wait — you did?"
"Mm-hm," she said. "Mike and Sarah are going to join me in the VIP box."
Francesco chuckled, picturing his dad and mum up there, probably dressed a little too warmly for the Emirates' insulated luxury seating, his dad trying to act casual while secretly loving the whole thing. "They'll like that. And you'll look after them?"
Leah gave a mock gasp. "Excuse me, I'm the one who has to survive ninety minutes sitting next to Mike. You know how he gets when you miss a shot."
Francesco laughed. "Oh yeah… fair point."
There was a pause — not awkward, but comfortable — before he asked, "And your family? You've told them about tonight?"
"I've done better than that," she said, a faint smile in her voice. "They're coming too. All of them."
"All?"
"Yep. My mum and dad — David and Amanda — and my brother Jacob. They'll be in the box with us."
For a moment, Francesco was quiet, the reality settling in. His parents. Her parents. All in one place. Watching him, together, for the first time. It was… a lot. Not in a bad way, but in the this is actually happening kind of way.
"Wow," he breathed. "That's… that's a full house."
"Mm-hm," Leah teased. "So you'd better give them something to cheer for."
He smirked. "No pressure then."
"Oh, there's plenty of pressure," she shot back, light-hearted but layered with truth. "But you'll handle it. You always do."
He leaned back against the bench, letting her voice wash over him. The idea of them all there — her and her family, his mum and dad — it felt big, like some marker in life that had just been quietly placed without ceremony.
"Alright," he said finally. "I'll see you after the match, then?"
"Only if you score," she replied, and hung up before he could answer.
Training was sharp but not overly intense — the kind of session meant to wake up the legs without draining them. Passing drills, positional shape work, finishing sequences against mannequins. Wenger's staff kept things crisp, the air light enough for smiles but serious enough to keep everyone dialled in.
As they wrapped up, Francesco caught Sánchez smirking at him.
"What?" he asked, slinging his bib into the basket.
"Nothing," Alexis said with a shrug that fooled no one. "Just… you had that look on the phone earlier. The one you get when you're talking to her."
Francesco shook his head. "You're imagining things."
"Mm," Alexis hummed, clearly unconvinced, before adding, "She's coming tonight?"
"Yeah," Francesco admitted. "With my parents. And hers."
Alexis grinned like a man who'd just been told gossip he couldn't wait to share. "Big night, then. On and off the pitch."
Francesco rolled his eyes but didn't deny it.
The hours between morning training and match night always felt strange — like being caught between two worlds. The adrenaline wasn't quite here yet, but the mind was already locked on what was coming. Francesco spent most of the afternoon at home, eating a light lunch, stretching, and running through clips of Atlético's last few games.
He studied Godín's positioning, Savic's habits in one-on-ones, how often Juanfran liked to push up before retreating. He watched Koke drifting inside, the timing of Saúl Ñíguez's runs from midfield. And of course, Griezmann — the way he ghosted into space, the way his first touch always seemed to open a lane that hadn't been there a second earlier.
But in the background of all that analysis was the picture of the VIP box tonight — Leah, her parents, her brother, his mum, his dad. He could almost hear the low murmur of their conversation, the occasional cheer, maybe his dad explaining a bit of the game to Amanda.
It wasn't a distraction. If anything, it was fuel.
By late afternoon, the team bus was rolling out of Colney, bound for the Emirates. The streets grew narrower as they approached north London, fans already spilling onto pavements, pubs overflowing with red shirts and raised pints. The closer they got, the more the hum of the city shifted into that unique, electric pre-match buzz.
When the bus finally pulled into the stadium's loading bay, the noise was already climbing. Camera flashes went off as they stepped down, the smell of grilled onions and street food drifting in from outside.
The first step into the Emirates dressing room was like stepping into a cocoon — the noise from outside instantly muffled, the air thick with the faint tang of liniment and freshly laundered kit. Each player had their own little island of space: boots lined up perfectly, training tops folded on the bench, match kit still hanging untouched for later.
Francesco headed straight to his spot, dropping his bag beneath the bench and pulling on the grey-and-red training top. Around him, the rest of the lads went through the same quiet ritual. No one rushed. Warm-ups were still half an hour away, and you could feel everyone settling into that pre-match rhythm — the mix of concentration and routine.
"Let's go," called Steve Bould after a few minutes, and the group began to file out.
The tunnel opened onto a sight that never got old: the emerald stretch of the Emirates pitch, floodlights already beginning to glow against the darkening sky. A low murmur of anticipation rolled down from the stands, fans craning to watch their heroes jog out for the first time that night.
The grass had that perfect spring bounce, the kind that makes every touch feel clean. The squad split into little groups — passing drills in one corner, shooting practice in another, keepers off to the side with Gerry Peyton. Francesco moved through the motions with a quiet sharpness: quick passing in a rondo, a few sprints to open the lungs, then into finishing drills where the ball zipped across the slick turf before he whipped it at goal.
The sound of a clean strike, that deep "thunk" of boot on ball, was oddly satisfying under the stadium lights.
When the final whistle for warm-up blew, the team jogged back down the tunnel, the noise from the crowd swelling as they disappeared from view. Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere shifted again — lighter moments replaced by an edge of steel.
The match kits were waiting, each shirt hung neatly in place. Francesco peeled off the damp training top and pulled the red home shirt over his head, feeling the familiar weight and fit settle across his shoulders. His boots were already broken in from training earlier in the week — black, understated, with just a glint of silver on the sides.
Wenger stood in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, scanning the faces in front of him. When he spoke, it was with that measured calm that somehow made every word land heavier.
"Tonight," he began, "we do not rush. We do not get drawn into their traps. We are patient, but we are also brave. They will try to frustrate you. Do not give them that satisfaction."
He glanced at the tactics board, where the formation was already sketched out.
"Petr Cech in goal," he said, tapping the keeper's name. "From left to right in defence: Nacho Monreal, Virgil van Dijk, Laurent Koscielny, Héctor Bellerín. Our defensive midfielders — N'Golo Kanté, Aaron Ramsey. Mesut Özil in the central role ahead of them."
Wenger's finger traced the wide areas. "Alexis Sánchez on the left. Theo Walcott on the right. And at the top…" he paused briefly, meeting Francesco's eyes, "…Francesco Lee."
The subs' list followed quickly: David Ospina, Per Mertesacker, Kieran Gibbs, Francis Coquelin, Alex Iwobi, Danny Welbeck, Olivier Giroud.
He finished with the kind of line that wasn't shouted, but carried all the more power for it: "You know what to do. Now go and do it."
The players stood, a low chorus of studs clicking against the floor as they moved toward the tunnel.
The tunnel before a Champions League night was a world unto itself — a narrow space where two teams stood within touching distance, yet entirely separate in their focus. Atlético's players were already there, in their black-and-yellow away strip, eyes hard, jaws set.
Francesco found his place in the line, just behind Özil, the white UEFA sleeve patch bright under the lights. The air felt thicker here, the noise from the stands bleeding in like a rising tide.
Then the signal came.
They stepped out together into a roar that hit like a wave. The stands were a mosaic of red and white, scarves held aloft, voices joining in a wall of sound. The Champions League anthem began — that grand, swelling theme that somehow made your heartbeat sync with its rhythm. Francesco glanced up toward the VIP boxes, knowing that somewhere in that sea of glass and light were Leah, his parents, and her family, all watching.
The formalities were over in moments — handshakes, coin toss, final huddle. Arsenal had the kickoff.
The whistle blew, and the ball rolled under Özil's touch. From the first seconds, it was sharp, tense football — both sides probing, neither giving an inch.
Within the opening twenty minutes, it was already a test of nerve. Atlético were as disciplined as their reputation promised, snapping into tackles, closing passing lanes. Arsenal, for their part, moved the ball with intent, looking for cracks.
And in that short span, both keepers proved why they were among the best in the world. Petr Cech had to dive low to his left to keep out a fizzing Griezmann strike, then rise high to punch away a Koke header, and later block a vicious shot from Saúl Ñíguez with his legs.
At the other end, Jan Oblak was just as sharp — first smothering a close-range effort from Sánchez, then tipping a Walcott curler over the bar, and finally sticking out a strong hand to deny Francesco himself after a quick Özil through ball.
By the time the clock ticked past the 20-minute mark, the scoreboard still read 0–0, but the Emirates was already buzzing with the sense that this was going to be a night to remember.
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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: 46
Goal: 66
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