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The Arsenal Cup was over, but its legend — and the promise of Taylor Swift echoing through their next five matches — had only just begun.
The next day, the mood on the plane back to London was a strange mixture of exhaustion and contentment. The boys slumped into their seats, headphones on, hoodies pulled up, bodies half-dead from the match and the late-night antics of the "Arsenal Cup." But every now and then, the memory of Giroud's fumbled shot or Francesco's final eight ball triumph sparked laughter across the cabin.
Francesco sat near the window, cheek pressed to the cool glass as clouds drifted lazily below. He had that quiet, reflective look about him, the kind that made him seem far older than his years. Every so often, Theo leaned over the aisle to nudge him and mutter something like, "You're the devil, mate. Five matches of Taylor Swift, you know that's basically torture," to which Francesco only responded with a smug half-smile.
By the time they touched down at Heathrow, the fatigue had settled in fully. Luggage carousels whirred, bags thumped onto the belts, and the squad shuffled forward like zombies. Even Wenger, dignified as always, moved with the slow gait of a man who had traveled too many miles.
"Come on, lads," Flamini muttered, hauling his suitcase with theatrical effort. "If I survive this day, I deserve a medal."
Francesco laughed quietly, grabbing his own suitcase. The leather handle was cool in his hand, the weight familiar. He slung it into the team bus's storage compartment and climbed aboard with the rest. The ride to Colney was uneventful — a blur of London traffic, gray skies, and the occasional burst of banter from the back seats. Sánchez dozed with his cap pulled low, Theo and Bellerín were bickering over something trivial, and Giroud sat silently staring out the window, still haunted, perhaps, by the ghost of Céline Dion.
When the bus finally rolled through the gates of Colney, the squad perked up. The familiar training ground loomed like a home away from home, green pitches stretching out in every direction, the glassy façade of the main building reflecting the dim afternoon light. The bus hissed to a stop, players filing out one by one, stretching limbs stiff from travel.
Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder, said a round of goodbyes — "See you tomorrow, mate," "Rest up," "Don't you dare send Taylor Swift in the group chat tonight" — before heading to the far end of the car park where his BMW X5 waited like a loyal sentinel.
The click of the key fob unlocked the beast with a soft chirp. He slid inside, the familiar leather embracing him, the faint scent of pine from an air freshener mixing with the distant echo of cologne that lingered on his jacket. The drive back to Richmond was smooth, the roads blessedly quiet. His body was tired, but the hum of the engine and the thought of home eased him into calm.
When he finally pulled into his driveway, the mansion rose before him, every window glowing warm against the gray sky. He parked the BMW in the garage beside his old Honda Civic, a little piece of his past life that he'd never been able to let go of. The garage door shut behind him with a low mechanical rumble, sealing away the world outside.
He stepped through the side door into the house and was immediately hit by a wave of aroma — rich, savory, mouthwatering. His stomach growled instinctively, the kind of hunger that no airplane meal could ever hope to satisfy.
The source was obvious. The kitchen lights glowed golden, and when he walked in, the sight that greeted him nearly made him laugh out loud.
Leah stood at the stove, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, a wooden spoon in hand. She turned just in time to catch him leaning against the doorway with that trademark grin of his.
"Well, well," he said softly, his voice carrying the warmth of someone who'd just stepped into heaven. "If I didn't know better, I'd think I walked into the wrong house. Since when do I have a personal chef?"
Leah smirked, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. "Don't flatter yourself. I was starving, so I thought I'd cook. You just happen to be lucky enough to arrive at the right time."
Francesco chuckled, stepping closer, the fatigue of the day beginning to melt from his shoulders. He leaned over the pot she was stirring, inhaling dramatically. "Smells like… chicken? With garlic? And maybe some rosemary?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "Not bad. Someone's been paying attention when I cook."
"Of course," he said, reaching out to steal a quick kiss on her cheek. "I'd be a fool not to."
She swatted him lightly with the spoon, leaving a faint dot of sauce on his sleeve. "Careful. You don't want to ruin that fancy jacket."
"Worth it," he quipped.
The kitchen was alive with small sounds — the simmering pot, the clink of utensils, the faint hum of the fridge. Francesco slid onto one of the bar stools at the island, watching Leah move with that easy confidence that always amazed him. On the pitch, she was ferocious, unstoppable. Here, she was calm, graceful, almost domestic.
"So," she said after a moment, glancing over her shoulder, "how was the trip back? Did the lads survive the torture of knowing Taylor Swift awaits them?"
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "Barely. Theo looked like he was planning an escape route mid-flight. Giroud hasn't forgiven me. He might not speak to me for a week."
Leah grinned, stirring the pot again. "That sounds about right. But honestly? I think it's brilliant. The idea of you lot walking out to Shake It Off makes me so happy."
"Don't encourage me," he said, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him.
She plated the food a few minutes later — golden roast chicken, crisp vegetables, and mashed potatoes that looked impossibly creamy. She slid one plate in front of him, another at her side, and finally sat down across from him with a sigh of satisfaction.
Francesco picked up his fork, but instead of digging in right away, he just looked at her for a moment, the way the light framed her face, the faint flush of her cheeks from the stove's heat. He smiled.
"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he said softly. "Just… it feels good. Coming back from all that madness, walking into this, to you. It feels like… home."
Leah's expression softened, and she reached across the table, brushing his hand with hers. "That's because it is."
For a while, they ate in comfortable silence, the kind that spoke louder than words. The food was incredible, every bite pulling Francesco further away from the stress of football, the scrutiny of cameras, the weight of expectations. Here, he was just a man, and she was just the woman who knew him better than anyone.
Halfway through, Leah broke the silence with a sly smile. "So, tell me. Who's worse at pool — Bellerín or Flamini?"
Francesco nearly choked on his food from laughter. "Oh, Flamini. Without a doubt. The man celebrated like he'd won the World Cup every time he sank a ball, and then he scratched on the cue ball two turns later. Absolute chaos."
Leah laughed so hard she had to set down her fork. "I wish I'd been there. That sounds like a comedy show."
"It was," he admitted, grinning. "And I'll tell you what, when this season's over, maybe I'll host a proper tournament here. Arsenal Cup, but in Richmond. Winner gets to choose the playlist, loser has to cook for everyone."
"Careful," she teased. "If I join, you'll all be eating burnt toast for a week."
"Then you'd better be on my team," he shot back.
The night stretched on like that — stories from the road, laughter spilling across the kitchen, the comfort of food and warmth.
The laughter that night in Richmond stretched until it was too late for either of them to notice the clock. The house felt alive with warmth—plates stacked in the sink, the faint smell of rosemary still drifting in the kitchen, Leah's laughter echoing down the hall even after she disappeared to change into something more comfortable. Francesco lingered at the table for a while, chin propped against his hand, a rare, lazy smile tugging at his lips. For once, his world wasn't built of fixtures and stats and headlines. It was built of roast chicken, a kitchen island, and a woman who could reduce him to silence with nothing more than a touch across the table.
When he finally crawled into bed, the weight of exhaustion came crashing down in a way it hadn't on the plane. The sheets were cool, Leah's hair tickled lightly against his cheek, and within minutes the chaos of Barcelona, the banter of teammates, the chants of fans—it all blurred into the simplest thing of all: sleep.
The days that followed carried their own rhythm, slower, less dramatic than Champions League nights, but no less important. Arsenal were in the thick of April now, when seasons are decided not by moments of brilliance alone but by consistency, grit, the stubborn will to grind through. Wenger, wise enough to know fatigue could sink them, kept training sharp but light, emphasizing precision over volume.
It was in that rhythm that the squad found themselves on 26 April 2016, gathered at Colney for another morning under the gray London sky. Boots thudded softly against the turf, shouts carried across the pitches, and the sharp whistle of Steve Bould cut through the chatter. The players moved in tight rondos, balls zipping one-touch from man to man, laughter mixing with the occasional bark of frustration when someone misplaced a pass.
Francesco looked alive despite the wear of travel and matches. The edge in his movement remained, that constant hunger crackling beneath his calm demeanor. It wasn't arrogance—it was that relentless fire that refused to dim. Every touch seemed to have intent, every glance forward searching for space no one else could see.
The lads teased him, of course—Theo muttering about how he'd sold his soul for that Barcelona performance, Alexis clapping him on the back so hard it nearly knocked him off balance. But they also respected it. There was an aura building around Francesco now, one that was beginning to blur the line between "talented newcomer" and "leader."
And in the weeks since Spain, Arsenal had played twice more, each time with Francesco leaving his mark.
The Emirates had been buzzing on that April afternoon against Crystal Palace, a spring sun cutting through the clouds, turning the glass panels of the stadium into mirrors that threw light across the surrounding streets.
Arsenal, fueled by the momentum of their European triumph, started with confidence. The ball zipped crisply across the pitch, red shirts pressing high, forcing Palace into their own half. Wenger, in his long coat, stood on the touchline with that familiar combination of serenity and intensity, his hands occasionally lifting to urge calm, his voice rarely more than a sharp instruction when necessary.
It was no surprise when the breakthrough came. A sweeping move began at the back—Koscielny threading a pass through midfield, Özil gliding into space before sliding the ball wide for Bellerín. The Spaniard's low cross found its way into the box, where Francesco ghosted between two defenders with that instinctive timing he was beginning to make his signature.
The ball arrived at his feet in a blur, and in one smooth motion, he side-footed it past Wayne Hennessey. The Emirates roared, the sound cascading down in waves as Francesco wheeled away, arms wide, face alight with the kind of joy that made football feel less like sport and more like music. His teammates swarmed him—Alexis ruffling his hair, Özil grinning quietly beside him—but it was the crowd's roar that lingered longest in his chest.
Crystal Palace, though, weren't there to play the role of willing victims. Yannick Bolasie, with his trademark mix of flair and power, found a gap midway through the second half. Collecting the ball outside the box, he shifted it onto his right foot and unleashed a drive that caught Petr Čech wrong-footed. The away end exploded, a pocket of noise that cut against the stunned hush of the Emirates.
For a few tense minutes, nerves crackled. The Emirates faithful, so often caught between belief and doubt, leaned forward in their seats, murmurs swelling into sharp shouts with every misplaced pass.
But Arsenal, to their credit, found their way back. It was Sánchez who stepped up, as he so often did. A looping ball from Welbeck caught Palace's back line square, and Sánchez darted between them like a knife through cloth. Rising high, he nodded the ball past Hennessey with a header that seemed to hang in the air for a heartbeat before nestling into the net.
2–1. The Emirates erupted again, relief and joy tangled together.
Francesco, watching Sánchez sprint to the corner flag, felt a rush of gratitude. Goals defined strikers, yes, but victories defined teams. And this, he thought, was what mattered.
When the whistle blew, Arsenal had secured all three points, and the walk back down the tunnel carried the kind of satisfaction that lingers deep in your bones.
If Palace was a test of composure, Sunderland was a test of endurance. The Stadium of Light welcomed Arsenal with the kind of atmosphere that could rattle even seasoned pros—a sea of red-and-white shirts, voices raised in a desperate, defiant chorus. Sunderland were fighting for survival, every ball contested like it was life or death.
From the first whistle, it was scrappy. Tackles flew, the ball skittered across a surface worn by a long winter, and the roar of the crowd seemed to swell every time Sunderland surged forward. Defoe buzzed around Arsenal's back line, sharp and restless, while Koscielny and Gabriel battled to keep him contained.
But it was in these kinds of matches, tight and ugly, that true class could carve out the difference.
Midway through the first half, Arsenal struck. It began with a turnover in midfield—Elneny snapping into a challenge, sliding the ball quickly to Özil. With a flick of his left boot, Özil found space where none existed, threading the ball between two Sunderland midfielders.
Francesco was already moving, his run perfectly timed, cutting diagonally across the last defender. The pass met him in stride, and with the keeper rushing out, he didn't hesitate. A calm push of the ball past the onrushing Vito Mannone, a swift second touch to steady, and then the finish—low, composed, sliding into the far corner.
1–0.
The away end erupted, Arsenal fans bouncing in their corner of the stadium, voices carrying across the Wearside air. Francesco sprinted toward them, fists clenched, roaring his joy. The kind of goal that wasn't flashy, wasn't destined for highlight reels—but it was priceless.
The rest of the match was grit. Sunderland pushed hard, throwing bodies forward, crosses whipped in desperately from both flanks. Čech commanded his box with authority, fists punching clear, voice booming above the din. Coquelin, relentless as ever, chased every loose ball like a man possessed.
And when the final whistle blew, the scoreboard still read 0–1. Three points, ground out in a place where many had faltered.
For Francesco, it was another moment in a season quickly filling with them. Not the spectacular volley against Barcelona, not the dazzling runs at the Emirates—just a simple, decisive strike in the cold air of the north. But as he walked off the pitch, sweat slick on his forehead, he knew it mattered just as much.
By the time they returned to London, April had begun to stretch toward its final days. The season's end loomed closer now, each result tightening the screws of expectation. The press circled constantly, speculating on Arsenal's title hopes, on Francesco's remarkable rise, on whether Wenger's men had the steel to see it through.
But at Colney, in those quiet stretches between matches, the truth was simpler. It was sweat on the grass, laughter between drills, the sting of a mistimed tackle, the bond of a squad chasing something bigger than themselves.
The morning before Bayern felt different at Colney. It wasn't nerves—not exactly—but the atmosphere carried that tautness you only ever felt before the really big nights. The kind that made the air thicker somehow, like every breath had to push through expectation.
The squad spilled onto the training pitch under a slate-grey sky, the spring chill clinging stubbornly to the air despite the promise of May just around the corner. The grass looked immaculate, trimmed within a millimetre of perfection, dew still shining faintly on the blades. A handful of cameras were stationed discreetly along the far side, club media staff capturing glimpses for the fans who would be hanging on every frame.
Francesco jogged out with the others, tugging at the collar of his red training top, the Arsenal crest stretched against his chest. His boots tapped rhythmically against the turf—new studs, worn in just enough over the weekend sessions to feel like an extension of himself. He glanced sideways, catching Alexis grinning that foxlike grin as if to say, this is what we live for, hermano.
There was laughter too, because that's what Arsenal were under Wenger—serious when they needed to be, but always laced with lightness. Theo was cracking some joke about Müller's running style, while Giroud pretended to mimic it, arms flapping ridiculously until Bellerín shoved him with a laugh. Even Petr Čech allowed himself a smile as he pulled on his gloves, though his focus was already shifting toward the barrage of shots he knew would come in drills.
But beneath the jokes, beneath the camaraderie, there was steel. They all knew. Bayern weren't just another opponent. They were Bayern. The kind of team that didn't just play football, they imposed it. Guardiola's Bayern were a machine—possession heavy, suffocating, with world-class talent in every position. And yet, Arsenal weren't just passengers here. They'd earned their place. They had bled for it in Barcelona. They had grown into something more than the sum of their parts.
Steve Bould blew the first sharp whistle, and rondos began. Small groups circling, passes zipping with precision, touches neat and sharp. Francesco found himself in with Özil, Coquelin, and Sánchez against a tight press from Monreal and Campbell. The ball popped around with one and two touches, the tempo rising as Wenger walked slowly along the sideline, arms folded, his gaze calm but attentive.
Every touch mattered. Not because this was training, but because tomorrow would demand it. Bayern punished hesitation. Bayern swallowed mistakes whole. Wenger had drilled that into them, but not with fear—with belief. Belief that if Arsenal could be brave, if they could trust their football, they could match anyone.
After the rondos came positional drills, lines of passes mapped out across the width of the pitch. Wenger wanted sharp transitions, the kind that could break Bayern's press before it settled. From defence to midfield, midfield to wings, then the sudden burst into space.
Francesco relished these. His runs weren't rehearsed; they were instinct. But drills like this sharpened the edge. He timed his dart between cones perfectly, Özil's weighted pass meeting him in stride, one touch to set, another to finish past Ospina in goal. A ripple of applause from the lads, Alexis shouting, "Así! Así, hermano!"
They moved into tactical shape next. Wenger gathered them briefly, his voice calm, deliberate.
"Tomorrow, we play with courage. Remember, Bayern will press high. They will want to smother us. But they leave spaces—always. Be intelligent. Play with speed. And when the chance comes… we must be clinical."
His eyes flicked toward Francesco in that moment, not pointedly, but enough for Francesco to feel the weight of it. Clinical. That would be his role. Goals didn't just decide ties like this—they defined them.
The drill shifted into a half-pitch eleven-versus-eleven. The "Bayern" side pressed ferociously, Coquelin and Elneny snapping into tackles to replicate Xabi Alonso and Vidal. Koscielny barked instructions from the back, marshalling the line against Giroud's hold-up play.
Francesco thrived in the chaos. Özil slipped into a pocket, clipped a ball between two markers, and Francesco was gone—one stride, two strides, then a curling finish past Ospina into the bottom corner. The lads clapped again, and Wenger's faint nod told him all he needed: that was the kind of run, the kind of finish, that could tip a tie.
But Bayern weren't just about defence. They worked on corners, knowing the aerial threat Lewandowski and Müller posed. Mertesacker was vocal, pointing constantly, while Bellerín rehearsed breaking lines on the counter. Every scenario felt alive, urgent, like rehearsal and battle at once.
By the end of the session, shirts clung with sweat, the air filled with the sharp tang of exertion. The squad jogged a warm-down lap, laughter returning now that the intensity had eased. Walcott teased Giroud about being nutmegged, Alexis and Gabriel shouted jokes in Spanish, and someone from the staff handed out bottles of water that vanished almost instantly.
Francesco walked slowly, his breathing steadying, the muscles in his legs still humming with energy. He glanced up at the sky—clouds shifting, a faint shaft of sunlight breaking through. Tomorrow, under the Allianz floodlights, the world would be watching. And for a moment, he felt that quiet mixture of nerves and anticipation that only came before the biggest nights.
Later, in the dressing room, Wenger addressed them once more, his words simple.
"Tomorrow, you have the chance to show what Arsenal is. Not just talent, but courage. Remember Barcelona. Remember the fight you gave. Bayern will respect you—but they will try to break you. Do not let them."
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of boots unlacing, of tape peeling from ankles. But it wasn't an empty silence. It was a silence of men already stepping into the fire in their minds.
Francesco tied his hoodie around his waist as they left the building, a cool wind brushing against his damp hair. Leah had promised she'd be at the match, flying with the club delegation, and the thought sent a small, grounding comfort through him. No matter the noise, the chaos, the ninety minutes of battle ahead—he'd know she was somewhere in the stands, watching.
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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: 51
Goal: 71
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