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He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. It was too much to carry all at once, too heavy for one night. But maybe, just maybe, it was also a sign that he was on the right path.
The television flickered in the dark of Francesco's hotel room, but eventually even Sky Sports' endless replays gave way to fatigue. He switched it off, slid beneath the covers, and let the city lights beyond the glass lull him to sleep. His last thought before drifting off was not of the Ballon d'Or, not even of Ribéry's shirt folded carefully by his bag, but of the roar of the Arsenal fans in Munich. That sound felt more golden than any trophy.
The return to London was quieter, the adrenaline of Europe replaced by the grind of the domestic run-in. Arsenal were still in the Premier League race, still in the FA Cup, and the Champions League final in Milan glimmered in the distance. But as Wenger kept reminding them: step by step.
Training at London Colney had that particular spring atmosphere — the grass freshly cut, the air warmer, the banter lighter. Yet beneath the jokes and rondos was a steeliness. Everyone knew they were walking a knife's edge.
For Francesco, every session felt like it existed in two worlds. On one hand, he was still the kid who couldn't stop grinning when Alexis nutmegged him in training or when Giroud tried (and failed) an overhead kick in a practice game. On the other, he was aware — painfully aware — that eyes were on him now in a way they hadn't been before. Reporters at the gates. Questions shouted about treble chances. Kids waiting with shirts that bore his name.
Mesut sensed it too. After one session, when Francesco lingered behind to practice finishing drills with Thierry Henry — who had dropped by that day — Özil walked past, paused, and said in that calm, understated way of his:
"Don't lose the joy. Pressure is always there, but joy is harder to keep. Protect it."
Francesco nodded, not fully sure he understood yet, but storing the words away like a note in a pocket.
The Etihad glistened under a pale grey Manchester sky. Arsenal knew City would come at them — Aguero and De Bruyne in particular were in frightening form — and Wenger had warned them in the meeting the night before: "Control the tempo, or they will."
But inside ten minutes, the tempo was very much City's.
Kevin De Bruyne picked up the ball in that space between Arsenal's midfield and defence, took one glance up, and let fly. It was one of those strikes where the moment it left his boot, everyone knew. Cech's dive was full stretch, fingertips straining, but the ball kissed the inside of the post and rattled into the net. 1-0 City, the Etihad bouncing.
Arsenal regrouped, and just before the half-hour mark, they answered.
Francesco was the spark — darting between Otamendi and Mangala, taking Özil's disguised pass in stride. One touch, then another to shift the ball onto his right foot, and bang — low, driven, precise, past Hart. He didn't celebrate wildly, just clenched his fists, eyes locked on the away end where the Arsenal fans erupted. 1-1.
But Aguero… you couldn't keep him quiet. Just before halftime, he struck again. A sharp cut inside Koscielny, a shot whipped low inside the far post. 2-1. City back ahead.
The halftime whistle blew with tension thick in the tunnel.
In the second half, Arsenal fought back with grit. Giroud muscled his way onto the end of a corner, thumping a header in. 2-2. The Frenchman wheeled away, shouting at the away supporters as if to remind everyone he still had plenty to give.
City, though, landed another punch. Aguero again — ghosting into space, rifling home his second of the night. 3-2. Wenger on the touchline clenched his jaw, arms folded tight.
But Arsenal refused to fold.
In the 78th minute, Alexis Sanchez picked up the ball on the left, danced past Sagna, cut inside, and let fly. The shot took a slight deflection, wrong-footing Hart, and nestled into the net. 3-3.
The final minutes were chaos — both teams swinging for the winner, both goalkeepers pulling off big saves. When the whistle blew, the players collapsed, sweat-soaked, knowing they'd been through a storm.
For Arsenal, the draw wasn't perfect, but it meant one crucial thing: the unbeaten run continued.
As they clapped the away end, Francesco felt that same old fire. He'd scored in Munich, now in Manchester. Big games, big goals. He was no longer hiding in the background.
The squad returned to London with heavy legs but lifted spirits. Training in those days was shorter, sharper — recovery sessions, tactical drills, light rondos. The FA Cup semi-final loomed now, Crystal Palace at Wembley on 11 May.
Palace weren't glamorous opponents, but Wenger kept warning them not to underestimate. Alan Pardew's side had pace on the break, muscle in midfield, and nothing to lose.
The media, though, had other stories.
Headlines buzzed about Arsenal's treble bid. Talk shows debated whether Wenger's men were about to carve their names into history. Francesco found himself on the covers of newspapers again, his goal at the Etihad replayed on highlight reels.
At home, in his Mansion in Richmond, he tried to shut it out. He cooked simple meals, FaceTimed his parents, and sometimes just sat with music in his ears staring at the city lights. The Ballon d'Or question still haunted him, but he didn't let it slip past his lips. Not to teammates, not to Wenger, not even to Mesut.
One night, two days before Wembley, he scrolled social media and saw that same boy from Munich again. Someone had snapped a picture of him outside the Allianz, holding that "LEE 9 — MY HERO" sign. The caption read: "He got Francesco's wave tonight. Best day of his life."
Francesco stared at it for a long time, then turned off his phone.
The morning of the semi-final, the team gathered at London Colney before the short bus ride to Wembley. The atmosphere was a mix of nerves and ritual — headphones on, eyes closed, water bottles sipped in silence.
Francesco sat near the middle.
As the bus rolled into Wembley Way, the sight hit him: seas of red and white, Palace's blue and red mixed in, flags waving, drums pounding. The arch loomed massive above it all, a monument to the occasion.
The bus eased to a stop beneath Wembley's towering arch, the familiar hiss of brakes drowned out by the thunder of fans outside. Francesco leaned sideways in his seat, forehead brushing the glass, trying to catch glimpses of the sea of supporters. Red and white scarves snapped in the breeze, children perched on their parents' shoulders, banners rippling with slogans of belief and memory — Wenger's Army, One More Step, Lee 9. The Palace fans were loud too, their drums thudding, their flags slashing streaks of blue and red against the London sky.
The doors opened, and the team filed out into the tunnel that led into the bowels of the stadium. The moment the concrete swallowed them, the noise muffled into a heavy background roar — like the ocean heard from underwater. Inside, Wembley's halls were bright and sterile, lined with giant images of FA Cup finals past. Francesco glanced up as they walked — Cantona's raised collar, Gerrard's thunderbolt, Ramsey's arms wide from two years ago. History all around. And now it's our turn.
They reached the dressing room, and as always at Wembley, it felt larger than at the Emirates — high ceiling, wide benches, gleaming lights above the mirrors. Shirts already hung in neat rows, the red gleam of Arsenal's kit standing out against the pale walls. Francesco's eyes went straight to the one with LEE 9 pressed across the back, pristine, waiting. But first — routine.
The players stripped down into their grey training tops and shorts, lacing up boots meant only for the warm-up. Conversations sparked here and there — Theo Walcott joking about Alexis's playlist, Cazorla laughing as he tightened his shin pads like they were medieval armor. Santi's smile, back in the squad after injury, lit the room. Everyone was glad to see him.
"Careful, eh?" Monreal teased, tapping Cazorla's shoulder. "Don't start dribbling through all of us first day back."
Cazorla grinned. "Maybe just one or two of you."
Francesco chuckled, sliding his headphones around his neck. There was a comfort to these exchanges, the kind of small talk that grounded them in normalcy even with 90,000 people waiting above.
They filed out down the tunnel and into the sunlight. The pitch stretched out, vast, emerald perfection under the arch. Even after months of big games, Francesco's breath caught. Wembley wasn't just another stadium — it felt different, as if the grass itself hummed with the memories of every final, every roar.
The Arsenal fans were already singing, even though only a fraction of the seats were filled during warm-ups. He could hear them — "We love you Arsenal, we do" — and felt a jolt of energy spike through him.
Warm-up began with jogging laps, light stretching, rondos. Francesco found himself in a circle with Walcott, Kante, and Virgil van Dijk. Theo teased him after a misplaced pass — "Golden Boot and can't play five yards, eh?" — but grinned as he said it.
Kante, ever focused, barely cracked a smile but slid into tackles during the rondo with his usual ferocity, even here. "Save some for the match, N'Golo," Virgil said, shaking his head.
Then came shooting drills, Francesco's favorite. Ball after ball rolled out from the coach, one touch to steady, another to lash it goalward. The net rippled again and again, though Cech and Ospina, taking turns in goal, threw themselves with theatrical dives to keep the mood light. Thierry Henry, standing quietly near Wenger, gave Francesco a subtle nod after one strike kissed the top corner. Francesco felt the warmth of pride flare in his chest.
When the whistle blew to end the routine, they jogged back toward the tunnel, lungs open, legs loose, minds sharpening. The crowd had swelled by now, the noise multiplying. Francesco glanced up once more before ducking inside — the arch gleaming against a patch of blue sky, the red shirts filling the lower tiers.
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere shifted. Gone were the chuckles and banter. Players sat before their kits, heads bowed in focus, the weight of the occasion settling in. The training gear peeled off, replaced by the red and white of Arsenal. Socks pulled high, boots tightened, shin pads slid into place. Francesco tugged his shirt over his head, smoothed it down, and stared for a moment at the crest over his heart.
Wenger stepped forward then, calm as ever, his voice even but firm.
"Mes amis," he began, eyes sweeping across the room. "We are here because we earned it. Munich, Manchester — we have shown the world what we can do. But today, it is not about glamour, it is not about names. It is about discipline, about focus, about respecting the opponent. Crystal Palace have pace, they have power, and they have nothing to lose. Remember that."
He pointed toward the whiteboard, where the formation was sketched out.
"4-3-3. Petr in goal. Nacho, Virgil, Laurent, Hector across the back. N'Golo sits deep, Santi and Mesut in the middle — control, vision, balance. Alexis on the left, Theo on the right, and Francesco up front. Direct, incisive, but patient. When the moment comes, you must take it."
His gaze fixed on Francesco then, not long, but enough for Francesco to feel it in his bones. The message was clear: this was his game to shape.
"The bench is strong," Wenger continued, gesturing to the list: Ospina, Mertesacker, Gibbs, Coquelin, Wilshere, Ramsey, Giroud. "Every man may be needed. Stay ready."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. Outside, the muffled roar of the crowd swelled, as if Wembley itself was inhaling before the storm.
"Enjoy it," Wenger finally said, softer now. "Protect the joy. Remember why you love this game. That is how we win."
Francesco thought back to Mesut's words at Colney — Don't lose the joy — and felt a strange calm wash over him. The pressure was there, yes, but so was the reason he had started this journey in the first place. The boy kicking a ball in a park, the roar of fans in Munich, the kid with the sign at the Allianz. All of it was here, condensed into this moment.
The captain's armband went to Koscielny, who stood, clapped his hands, and barked a short French rallying cry. The players rose as one, boots clicking on the tiled floor, shoulders brushing as they formed a tight huddle. Alexis muttered something in Spanish, Theo in English, Virgil in Dutch. Different tongues, same heartbeat.
Francesco closed his eyes for just a second inside that circle. The world narrowed to the sound of breathing, the press of shoulders, the distant thunder above.
Then — time.
The knock on the door came, sharp and final.
"Arsenal."
The tunnel beckoned. The arch waited. Wembley roared.
The corridor just outside the dressing rooms felt narrower than it really was. Perhaps it was the weight of the moment pressing in from both sides, Arsenal red on one flank, Palace blue and red on the other. The strip of carpet beneath their boots seemed to stretch for miles, even though Francesco knew it was only a few paces to the mouth of the tunnel.
He could hear them before he saw them — the Palace players waiting, shuffling, murmuring to each other in low tones. When Arsenal filed out, they came shoulder to shoulder with them. Scott Dann, broad-shouldered and serious, stood near the front; Wilfried Zaha bounced on the balls of his feet with restless energy; Mile Jedinak, the bearded captain, looked carved out of stone, his eyes sharp and unyielding.
Francesco found himself standing beside Yannick Bolasie. The winger glanced at him, then gave the faintest of nods — not hostile, not friendly, just an acknowledgement between two men about to test each other on the biggest stage in England.
The tunnel lights buzzed faintly overhead, illuminating the sheen of sweat already beginning to form on necks and foreheads. Beyond, past the black-draped arch that blocked their view, came the unmistakable, bone-shaking rumble of Wembley. The crowd's anticipation was no longer a distant hum — it was a storm pressing right up against the barrier, ready to swallow them the moment they stepped through.
The referee and his assistants appeared then, all in bright yellow, calm faces hiding the knowledge of the occasion they too were part of. "Ready?" the referee asked, his voice firm but carrying the cadence of ritual more than question. Both captains — Koscielny and Jedinak — gave curt nods.
"Okay. Let's go."
The black arch lifted, and the world poured in.
Noise slammed into them like a tidal wave. Red flares billowed in the Arsenal end, blue and red flags surged opposite, and the chorus of competing songs rattled in Francesco's ribs. He blinked against the sudden sunlight, the gleam of Wembley's pitch like a carpet laid out before kings.
They walked. Slowly, deliberately, side by side with their opponents, children mascots clinging to their hands. Francesco glanced down at the boy walking with him — hair sticking up wildly, front teeth missing, eyes wide as saucers. The kid stared up at him with that awe only children could manage, and Francesco felt his chest tighten. He gave the boy's hand a reassuring squeeze.
As they lined up beside the referees, the formalities began. One by one, handshakes were exchanged. Francesco's palm slapped against Hennessey's giant hand, then against Dann's, then Zaha's. Quick grips, brief eye contact — nothing more, nothing less. But within each glance was an unspoken promise: today we fight.
The Arsenal eleven grouped together, crouching and standing in their designated rows for the photo. Flashbulbs popped in rapid succession, capturing forever the faces of those who would write this chapter. Francesco crouched in the front, arms resting on his thighs, staring directly into the camera. His expression was steady, composed, but inside his heartbeat drummed louder than the Palace fans' drums.
Koscielny peeled off to meet Jedinak and the referee in the center circle. The coin flashed briefly in the light as it spun upward, caught the sun, then clattered softly into the ref's palm. A brief pause, a murmur — then the referee gestured toward Arsenal's half. Koscielny gave a small nod of satisfaction. Arsenal had the kickoff.
The players jogged into position. Francesco tugged at his socks, shifted his boots into the turf, took one long breath. The whistle pierced the air.
And the final began.
The opening exchanges were a blur of speed and steel. Arsenal, eager to set the tempo, pushed high with Alexis and Theo tearing down the flanks, while Francesco lingered centrally, pressing the line, looking for cracks. Palace, disciplined and compact, snapped into tackles with ruthless intent, then broke forward with the venom of Zaha and Bolasie.
Within four minutes, Arsenal carved their first chance. Özil dropped deep, received a neat layoff from Cazorla, and slid a ball through the channel for Francesco. He sprinted onto it, his first touch pulling it across the edge of the box, before hammering a strike low toward the near post. Hennessey was sharp — down fast, wrist strong, palming the shot wide.
The Arsenal fans roared encouragement, but Palace responded almost immediately. Cabaye, clever and precise, dinked a pass over the top of Virgil van Dijk. Zaha latched on, cut inside, and whipped a curling effort destined for the far corner. Cech, tall and commanding, flung himself across and clawed it away, fingertips bending the ball past the post.
Two chances. Two saves. The message was clear: this wasn't going to be a procession.
Back and forth it went. In the 10th minute, Alexis Sánchez danced past Joel Ward and unleashed a thunderous shot from twenty yards. Hennessey again — flying, stretching, pushing it up and over the bar. The Welsh keeper punched the air afterward, defiance written across his face.
From the resulting corner, Palace cleared and countered like lightning. Bolasie surged down the left, shrugged off Bellerín, and drove a strike low toward the bottom corner. Cech was there again, his leg jutting out to block, the ball spinning away dangerously before Koscielny hacked it clear.
Francesco, chest heaving, tracked back instinctively, clapping his hands to urge focus. He could feel the knife-edge tension — both sides testing, probing, refusing to blink.
By the 15th minute, the game had already seen four saves apiece. Walcott's near-post strike denied. Cabaye's dipping free-kick tipped over. Francesco again, rising high to meet Özil's curling cross, his header arrowing down, only for Hennessey's reflexes to deny him. And then Bolasie again, muscling past Monreal, only to see his shot smothered by Cech.
It was relentless. The defenders, too, were putting their bodies on the line — Van Dijk thundering into tackles, Koscielny reading danger like a book, Jedinak and Dann doing the same at the other end, blocking Sánchez and Walcott at every turn.
Twenty minutes in, the scoreline was still 0–0, but the match already felt like a storm threatening to break. Wembley was a cauldron, half the stadium roaring at every Arsenal surge, the other half exploding whenever Palace dared to counter.
Francesco bent over briefly, hands on knees, sucking in air. He glanced toward the Arsenal end — a wall of red and white, scarves aloft, chanting his name. He straightened, wiped the sweat from his brow, and jogged back into position.
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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: 54
Goal: 74
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