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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.
The next day, Francesco arrived at Colney just as the low sun began stretching amber light across the training ground. The clock ticked toward five in the afternoon, and the place buzzed with an energy that was both ordinary and electric all at once. On any other day, Colney in the evening might have felt quiet, the players filtering in for recovery sessions or light drills. But today—today was different.
Champions League semi-final. Arsenal versus Bayern Munich. First leg, at the Emirates.
The moment he stepped inside the glass doors, Francesco felt it: a mix of chatter, footsteps echoing off the hallways, and the kind of low laughter that carried an edge of adrenaline beneath it. He spotted Alexis leaning against the wall near the boot room, earbuds in, head bobbing slightly, before he looked up and nodded at him with that mischievous grin.
"Listo, hermano?" Alexis asked, flicking one earbud out.
Francesco returned the grin, dropping his bag by the bench. "Always. What about you?"
"Siempre. Bayern are good… but so are we."
It wasn't arrogance—just conviction. That was Alexis.
One by one, the rest filtered in. Özil, quiet and focused, slipped through with his usual understated calm. Giroud arrived with a coffee in hand, making jokes about needing the extra fuel. Ramsey, Coquelin, Bellerín—each of them in their own rhythms, some chattier than others, but all aware of what awaited.
By 17:15, Wenger and the staff had gathered them all in the central hall. The Frenchman's presence was steady, grounding. No long speeches yet; those would come later. For now, it was about focus, about routine. He glanced at his watch, then gave a simple nod.
"Gentlemen—time to go."
The bus waited outside, its glossy red paint catching what little light remained of the day. Club staff loaded the gear, zipped bags clinking faintly with boots and tape, physio kits stacked neatly underneath. Security hovered discreetly nearby, keeping an eye on the perimeter.
The players filed in, one by one, each choosing their usual spots. Footballers were creatures of habit—superstitions disguised as routines. Francesco slid into his usual seat near the middle, aisle side, giving him a good view down the bus. Alexis took the window next to him, already fiddling with his playlist. A few rows ahead, Giroud was deep in conversation with Laurent Koscielny, their French flowing easily, laughter breaking now and then.
As the engine hummed to life, the mood shifted. Outside, fans had already gathered—dozens of them, scarves aloft, chanting as the bus rolled forward. Some waved flares, red smoke trailing into the dusk, their voices muffled through the glass but unmistakable in their passion.
"Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!"
Francesco turned his head, watching the blur of faces and colours pass by. He felt it in his chest—this wasn't just another game. This was London, this was their people, and tonight they carried that weight.
The ride itself wasn't long. From Colney to the Emirates, the bus carved through familiar roads, traffic easing with the escort of police bikes clearing the way. Some players filled the silence with music—beats pulsing softly from their headphones. Others spoke in low tones. Özil leaned back, eyes closed, already somewhere inside the game.
Francesco tapped his thigh in rhythm with Alexis's music, restless energy building in him. He thought briefly of Leah, knowing she'd already be at the stadium by now, maybe even catching sight of this very bus as it made its way into North London. The thought steadied him, gave him a tether amidst the rising storm in his mind.
By the time the Emirates loomed into view, the bus fell quiet. Not silent—never silent—but quieter, as though everyone felt the gravity tighten a notch. The stadium glowed against the darkening sky, its white ribs lit in brilliance, Arsenal red flooding across the banners and big screens. Fans thronged the approach, scarves waving, songs breaking like waves against the glass.
Inside the bus, someone muttered, "Here we go," and it was enough to make a few heads nod.
The vehicle eased into the underground entrance, past security, and finally hissed to a stop. One by one, they rose. Bags slung over shoulders, headphones around necks, boots clattering softly against the steps as they filed down into the familiar concrete belly of the Emirates.
The dressing room awaited, buzzing with quiet preparation. Their kits had already been laid out with meticulous care: red shirts gleaming beneath the lights, shorts folded neatly, socks rolled in pairs. Above each space, the nameplates gleamed—LEE 9, SÁNCHEZ 17, ÖZIL 11, KOSCIELNY 6. The smell of liniment hung faintly in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of fresh grass drifting in from the tunnel.
But first came warm-up gear. Francesco dropped his bag onto his seat, peeled off his hoodie, and changed into the black training top and shorts waiting for him. Around him, the room hummed with little rituals. Giroud taped his wrists. Ramsey stretched out his hamstrings with a band. Petr Čech sat in his corner, calm as ever, pulling on his socks with methodical ease.
"Fifteen minutes, lads," Bould reminded, clapping his hands once.
When they stepped out onto the pitch, the stadium lights hit them full force. Even though the seats weren't entirely filled yet, the sound already rolled down like a tide—fans who had arrived early chanting, clapping, waving flags. The pitch itself was pristine, emerald green and perfect, the kind of surface that begged for football.
Warm-up began in stages. Jogging laps first, loosening the muscles, feeling the turf underfoot. Then stretches, dynamic drills, high knees, side steps. Francesco fell into the rhythm, his lungs opening to the cool air, his body sharpening with each stride.
From there, they split into groups. Passing drills—one-touch, two-touch, triangles under pressure. Francesco found himself working alongside Özil and Bellerín, the ball zipping between them with crisp precision. Each touch felt like a small rehearsal for what was coming: Bayern's press, Bayern's traps, Bayern's relentless hunger to suffocate possession.
Across the pitch, Giroud worked on hold-up play, chesting balls down from long passes, laying them off for midfield runners. Alexis, as always, trained like it was already the 90th minute of a final—sprinting, demanding, urging those around him to sharpen every movement.
Then came shooting drills. Francesco lined up, waiting his turn. When Özil rolled the ball into his path, he struck cleanly with his right—low, fast, skimming the turf before thudding into the bottom corner past Ospina. The fans behind the goal roared approval, even for a warm-up strike. He jogged back to the line, pulse quickening.
"Nice, hermano," Alexis said, slapping his shoulder after his own effort rippled the net.
For twenty minutes, they moved through routines, each one more intense than the last. Wenger and Bould watched from the sideline, arms folded, occasionally exchanging a word but mostly just observing. The staff gathered stray balls, set cones, reset drills.
By the time the whistle came to signal the end of warm-up, the Emirates was filling fast. Tens of thousands of fans streamed into their seats, the noise swelling into something greater, something living. The players jogged toward the tunnel, clapping lightly to the crowd as they disappeared back into the bowels of the stadium.
The walk back into the tunnel after warm-up was always different from the one that came before. When they'd first stepped out, the stadium had been filling—now, as the players trotted back toward the dressing room, the Emirates was nearly full. The chants followed them, echoing into the concrete walls as though the building itself vibrated with anticipation.
Francesco pulled at the hem of his training top, sweat cooling quickly against his skin as they made their way down the long corridor. Behind him, Alexis was still buzzing, juggling the ball on his thigh even as they moved, until one of the staff laughed and told him to save it for the pitch. Özil, silent as ever, walked with his head lowered, hands tucked into his sleeves, already locked into that inner world he built before every match.
When they pushed open the heavy door to the dressing room, it was like stepping into another universe. The space hummed with fluorescent light, the smell of liniment and leather sharp in the air. Their match kits were laid out, bright red against the benches—shining like armour before battle. The atmosphere tightened instantly; this was no longer about drills or laughter. This was about the ninety minutes that could define a season.
Francesco dropped onto his seat and reached for his shirt. LEE 9. He stared at the back of it for a moment, his name and number stitched in white against the red. Every time he saw it, it struck him anew—the weight of what it meant, the lineage he was trying to carve himself into. Henry. Bergkamp. Wright. Legends who had worn this badge and lifted this club on their shoulders. Tonight, it was his turn to carry part of that burden.
One by one, the players began to change. Tape stretched across ankles with sharp pulls of tension. Shin pads slipped into socks. Boots laced tight, studs clicking against the tile floor as men shifted their feet, restless. The sound of zippers, the rattle of water bottles, the occasional laugh that broke through like a crack of light in the heavy air—it all mixed into a strange kind of music.
Wenger stepped forward at last, his presence quiet but commanding. He didn't need to raise his voice; when he spoke, the room listened. His suit was immaculate as always, his tie straight, his expression somewhere between stern and calm. He stood near the tactics board, one hand resting lightly against it as if he were steadying himself, though everyone knew it was the players who steadied under him.
"Mes amis," he began, his French accent soft but firm. The chatter died instantly.
"You know what this night means. You feel it as I do. The Champions League semi-final is not something given—it is something earned. And you have earned this moment."
Francesco leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on Wenger. Around him, the others mirrored the same—some with heads bowed, some with eyes wide, but all listening.
Wenger tapped the board, and the magnets were already laid out in formation.
"We go with a 4-2-3-1 tonight. Petr is in goal." His gaze slid to Čech, who sat calmly in his corner, nodding once in acknowledgment.
"The defence," Wenger continued, moving his hand across the board, "from left to right: Nacho, Virgil, Laurent, Héctor." Each man lifted his chin at the mention of his name. Virgil Van Dijk, tall and implacable even off the pitch, exchanged a brief nod with Koscielny—a silent pact of solidarity.
"In midfield, we have our balance. Our strength. N'Golo." Wenger's eyes lingered on Kanté, who gave a faint smile, shy but resolute. "And Aaron." Ramsey exhaled sharply, flexing his hands like he was already chasing down the ball.
"In front of them, Mesut. The brain, the vision." Özil didn't move much, but the flicker of acknowledgment was there in his eyes.
"On the left, Alexis. On the right, Theo." Both men straightened, Sánchez's expression fierce while Walcott gave a small determined nod, fists clenched lightly at his sides.
"And up front—Francesco."
The room seemed to pause a fraction of a second at his name. Not because it was unexpected—everyone knew he'd start—but because of what it meant. He was the spearhead tonight. The man who had dragged Arsenal past Barcelona. The striker the fans pinned their hopes on. Francesco swallowed once, giving Wenger a firm nod, his heart pounding faster.
"And these are our soldiers on the bench," Wenger added, his hand moving to the names written below. "David, Per, Kieran, Francis, Alex, Danny, Olivier. Every one of you may be needed, every one of you will be ready."
He let the words settle before speaking again, his voice lowering into something more intimate.
"Bayern will come with their power, their discipline, their ruthlessness. They are not here to play—they are here to win. But so are we. Do not be afraid to suffer for each other. Do not be afraid to take risks. Trust the man beside you. Trust the shirt you wear."
He looked around the room slowly, meeting each player's eyes. "Play our football. Play with courage. Play with joy. And above all, remember—this is our home. Our stadium. Our people. Let them feel it."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged. It wasn't an absence of sound—it was the kind of silence that came before an explosion.
Then Alexis broke it, clapping his hands together sharply. "¡Vamos, carajo!" he shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls. A few of the lads laughed, the tension breaking just enough, replaced by the fierce edge of adrenaline.
Francesco pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric snug against his chest. He laced up his boots, fingers moving quickly but with care, double-knotting the laces the way he always did. When he looked up, he caught Bellerín's eye across the room. The Spaniard grinned, tapping his chest twice and pointing toward the tunnel. Ready?
Francesco nodded back. More than ready.
By now, the noise outside was thunder. The Emirates was full, 60,000 voices blending into one. The walls seemed to shake with it, every chant carrying through the floor.
The kit man came around with the final checks—laces tied, shin pads in, armbands handed out. Koscielny pulled the captain's band up his sleeve, adjusting it with quiet precision.
Francesco closed his eyes for a brief second. Leah's face flashed in his mind, her smile steady, her belief unwavering. He thought of all the mornings at Colney, the endless drills, the battles in training, the late nights replaying matches in his head. All of it had led to this. Ninety minutes—or more—against one of the greatest teams in the world.
He opened his eyes and stood. Around him, his teammates were doing the same. No more words were needed.
The kit man swung the door open, and the roar from the tunnel spilled in like a wave.
"Arsenal ready?" the UEFA official called.
Koscielny glanced at them all, then nodded firmly. "Ready."
They filed out in two lines, red shirts blazing under the harsh tunnel lights, boots clattering against concrete. Francesco inhaled deeply, the smell of grass and smoke from flares filling his lungs. Ahead, the tunnel stretched toward the pitch, where the noise swelled into something almost unbearable.
And then, side by side with Bayern Munich, they began the walk.
The tunnel stretched like the throat of some enormous beast, swallowing them into light and sound. Francesco could feel the vibrations before he even saw the pitch—each step closer brought the rumble louder, until it wasn't just noise but something physical pressing against his skin. His chest vibrated with it. His boots seemed to pick up the rhythm of the chants echoing across North London.
And then they stepped out.
The Emirates erupted. Red flares smoked in the upper corners, banners waved, flags thrashed in the cold night air. A Champions League semi-final. It wasn't just another match—this was theatre, battle, and dream all bound together. Francesco squinted slightly under the floodlights, the glow catching the dew on the grass until it looked like the pitch itself shimmered with possibility.
They walked shoulder to shoulder, lined up in perfect symmetry beside their opponents. Bayern Munich. Ruthless, disciplined, polished in their white away strip with the thin red-and-burgundy trim. Philipp Lahm at their head, as dignified and unshakable as ever. Behind him, Manuel Neuer, a towering presence. Robert Lewandowski's jaw clenched tight, eyes sharp. Kingsley Coman grinned faintly, that unnerving smirk of a man who thrived in chaos. Arturo Vidal bounced on his heels, restless energy radiating from him like sparks.
The referee's whistle cut the air. The signal.
The Champions League anthem began.
Every time Francesco heard it, he felt goosebumps. The deep choral notes rolled through the stadium, sweeping over sixty thousand voices that for once fell silent to listen. He kept his head forward, standing tall, but his eyes flicked up to the stands. He caught sight of a banner stretched across the Clock End: OUR TIME IS NOW.
The anthem thundered to its close, and then came the rituals.
The referee, stern-faced with the UEFA badge gleaming on his sleeve, stepped forward, flanked by the assistants and the fourth official. One by one, the Arsenal players shook his hand, then those of Bayern. Francesco clasped Lahm's palm firmly, then Neuer's—his fingers swallowed in the giant keeper's grip—then Lewandowski's, brief and businesslike. Vidal squeezed harder than necessary, and Francesco met his gaze without flinching.
There was respect in those gestures, but also the subtle testing of wills.
The photographers gathered, snapping like machine gun fire as both teams assembled for the group pictures. Arsenal crouched in the front row—Bellerín, Sánchez, Ramsey—while the taller men stood behind: Van Dijk, Koscielny, Francesco himself at the centre, arms resting lightly on teammates' shoulders. The flashbulbs caught the determination etched on their faces, freezing it in history.
When the pictures were done, Koscielny and Lahm stepped toward the centre circle with the referee for the coin toss. Francesco followed a step behind, watching the exchange. Lahm, calm as a general, spoke with quiet authority. Koscielny mirrored it with his own steady presence, his armband pulled snug around his bicep.
The referee produced the coin, gleaming under the lights. He explained the options quickly, then flicked it high. Time seemed to slow—the coin spinning, silver flashing, the crowd a restless ocean in the background.
"Heads," Koscielny called, his voice sharp in the cool night air.
The coin clattered into the referee's palm, covered, then revealed. Heads.
A flicker of a smile crossed Koscielny's face as he nodded, turning toward Lahm. They shook hands once more, professional and respectful, before the Arsenal captain gestured back toward his teammates. Arsenal would kick off.
Francesco exhaled slowly, a long breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He turned his head just slightly and caught Alexis' eye, then Ramsey's. Both men gave small nods of acknowledgment. The message was clear: we start, we strike first.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
For a half-second, the whole stadium seemed to hold its breath, sixty thousand lungs pausing in unison, every voice perched on the edge of a roar that hadn't yet been released.
Then came the shrill blast.
And the Champions League semi-final began.
Arsenal kicked off, the ball rolling back under Ramsey's boot, then swept sideways to Koscielny. From the first touch, Bayern's press was there, snapping at ankles, shadows darting in from all angles. Lahm darted forward with calculated precision, Coman buzzing across the line like a wasp you couldn't quite swat. Lewandowski hovered between the centre-backs, cutting off lanes, forcing mistakes.
But Arsenal didn't hesitate. They had prepared for this. Koscielny slipped it wide to Monreal, who immediately clipped a neat ball up toward Sánchez. Alexis, never shy of a fight, backed into Lahm, body tight, shielding the ball before spinning away to Ramsey. One-two, and Arsenal were already testing Bayern's shape.
The first shot came barely three minutes in. Özil had ghosted between Xabi Alonso and Thiago, collected a clever reverse pass from Francesco, and whipped a curling effort toward the top right corner. The Emirates rose to its feet, breath catching—only for Neuer to fling himself across, an enormous paw sending the ball arching away like it had hit a wall.
The roar that followed was both awe and frustration, equal parts respect for the keeper and hunger for what might come next.
Bayern responded immediately. Lewandowski peeled into the channel between Van Dijk and Monreal, collecting a lofted pass from Vidal. With a single touch, he turned and lashed at goal. It was venomous, low and skidding. Cech read it early, dropping down to his right and palming it away with one massive hand, the rebound hacked clear by Bellerín.
Two world-class strikers had taken aim. Two world-class goalkeepers had answered.
And that was just five minutes gone.
The tempo was vicious, like two heavyweights trading haymakers without waiting for the bell. Every pass carried risk, every duel was a test of endurance.
At the heart of it all was the midfield battle.
For Arsenal: Ramsey, Özil, and Kanté. For Bayern: Vidal, Thiago, Alonso. Six men locked in a perpetual storm, every square yard of grass contested, every loose ball a grenade waiting to be claimed.
Vidal was everywhere. Snarling, tackling, muscling his way into pockets of space, as though the entire match hinged on his lungs and his fury. He went chest-to-chest with Ramsey on one duel, the Welshman refusing to give ground, both men bouncing off each other before the ball squirted away to Kanté.
Thiago was different. Graceful where Vidal was brutal, a dancer threading steps through chaos. He demanded the ball, receiving on the half-turn, his hips swivelling, always looking to pry open angles no one else could see. A flick over Kanté here, a disguised pass there. Every touch carried danger.
And behind them, Alonso — the metronome. His long passes sliced the air, diagonals that stretched Arsenal's back line to breaking point. His calm presence allowed Bayern to recycle endlessly, probing, searching.
Arsenal's trio refused to be overrun. Kanté snapped into tackles like a man possessed, springing back to his feet before the ball had even fully left his boot. Özil glided between shadows, threading passes to break Bayern's rhythm. And Ramsey? He ran. Always. Tracking Thiago one moment, bursting forward into space the next, lungs burning but never slowing.
It was a midfield knife fight under floodlights. Steel clashing with steel.
By the tenth minute, both keepers had already earned their wages.
Lewandowski again tested Cech, this time with a curling header from a Thiago free-kick, only for the Czech giant to claw it out of the top corner with fingertips. The save brought him crashing into the post, but he bounced back up, jaw set, ready for the corner.
Seconds later, Arsenal struck back. Özil slipped Francesco into space at the edge of the box. With one touch, Francesco opened his body and rifled a shot low toward the far corner. The ball skipped wickedly on the slick grass. Neuer read it, sprawling full length, hand outstretched. His fingertips pushed it around the post, the crowd groaning at the denial.
Four saves for Cech. Four saves for Neuer. Ten minutes played.
The scoreboard hadn't moved, but the stadium throbbed with the sense that anything could happen, any second.
In the fifteenth minute, Bayern nearly broke through.
Coman found himself in space down the right, Monreal a step behind after slipping. Coman's cross was perfect—flat, whipped, and curling behind Arsenal's defence. Lewandowski lunged, studs flashing, inches from the ball. But Cech, reading the danger early, dived at full stretch and smothered it before the striker's boot could connect.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Relief followed like an exhale.
And then, almost instantly, Arsenal surged the other way.
Kanté robbed Alonso in midfield, snapping the ball free and feeding Özil. Özil lifted his head and picked the perfect pass, threading Francesco between Boateng and Benatia. The stadium erupted as Francesco sprinted clear, red shirt flashing under the floodlights, the ball glued to his boots.
One-on-one with Neuer.
Francesco struck hard, low, aiming to slip it beneath the keeper's outstretched leg. Neuer spread himself impossibly wide, a wall of limbs, and somehow deflected it with his trailing foot. The rebound spun loose—Alexis stormed in, lashing at it. Neuer scrambled across, fingertips again, clawing it away before it could cross the line.
The Emirates roared, sixty thousand voices demanding a goal, but once again it was Neuer's nightmarish reach that kept Bayern level.
The next five minutes were pure fire.
Every fifty-fifty was thunderous. Monreal and Lahm collided in one, both men hitting the turf but bouncing straight back up, neither willing to show weakness. Ramsey and Vidal traded tackles that rattled bones, each grimacing, each demanding more.
By the twentieth minute, it felt like they'd been playing an hour. Shirts clung wet with sweat. Chests heaved. And still, the pace never dropped. Both teams had their chances, and both goalkeepers had stood tall. And as the clock ticked past twenty, the crowd knew one thing for certain: this wasn't just a football match. It was a war, a story unfolding with every touch.
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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