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As the bus pulled away from the airport, Francesco looked out the window, city streets rolling past once more. The win was already becoming memory.
The bus rolled through the gates of St. George's Park with the same quiet efficiency that had carried them everywhere else over the last few days.
There was no fanfare waiting for them. No cameras. No shouting crowds. Just trimmed grass stretching out in careful symmetry, low modern buildings sitting calmly against the pale sky, and staff who nodded as the bus passed, already moving on to the next task.
England filtered off in ones and twos, movements unhurried now. The rhythm of international duty was winding down, loosening its grip. Handshakes were exchanged, backs were clapped, promises to see each other soon murmured with genuine warmth rather than obligation.
Francesco lingered a little longer than most, standing near the bus door with his bag over his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of the place. Grass. Cold air. Coffee drifting from somewhere inside.
Southgate approached him quietly.
"Good work," he said, simply.
Francesco nodded. "The group's in a good place."
Southgate smiled faintly. "That's because you've helped put it there."
They didn't say more. They didn't need to.
One by one, players peeled away to their own cars. Engines started. Tyres rolled over gravel. The England bubble dissolved gently rather than bursting.
Francesco climbed into his car last.
The drive home felt different from the drive back to St. Georges Park. Less reflective. More forward-facing. London traffic crept and surged around him, radio murmuring in the background, but his mind had already shifted.
Club football was calling again.
Arsenal.
The days that followed slipped into their familiar cadence.
Recovery first. Ice baths. Light training. Massage tables and quiet conversations with physios. Then sharper sessions. More intensity. Wenger watching closely, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, eyes missing nothing.
Francesco felt good.
Not just physically, though his legs responded cleanly, his touch was crisp. The England camp had sharpened something inside him rather than dulling it. Leadership didn't weigh heavier now; it sat more naturally.
By the time April arrived, there was a hum around London Colney that went beyond routine.
Manchester City were coming to the Emirates.
Sunday, 2 April 2017.
A match that carried weight even before a ball was kicked.
The morning of the game began early, as it always did. Francesco arrived at the training ground in silence, parking his car in its usual spot, stepping out into air that felt charged despite its coolness.
The team bus waited, engine running, Arsenal crest gleaming against its side.
Inside, the atmosphere was focused but alive.
Alexis sat near the front, headphones on, eyes closed, already halfway inside his own competitive world. Özil leaned back two rows behind him, scrolling idly on his phone, looking relaxed in a way that somehow still felt intentional. Walcott joked quietly with Bellerín before being reminded again that he was starting on the bench today.
Van Dijk's presence filled space without effort. Calm. Solid. Koscielny spoke softly to Monreal, gesturing occasionally, already thinking in defensive patterns.
Francesco took his seat and watched it all come together.
This was a different leadership role now. Not international. Not temporary.
This was home.
The bus pulled away, rolling through the familiar streets toward the Emirates Stadium. Fans were already gathering along the route, scarves wrapped tight, some raising phones as the bus passed, others simply watching with quiet anticipation.
As the stadium came into view, its red and white curves cutting into the skyline, Francesco felt that familiar tightening in his chest.
This place demanded things from you.
The bus eased into its parking bay beneath the stands, doors folding open with a hydraulic sigh. The smell of the stadium hit immediately with concrete, grass, something electric that only existed on matchdays.
Players stepped off, boots crunching against the ground, each one slipping into his own headspace.
Inside, the dressing room awaited.
Red shirts hung neatly in their places, names and numbers facing outward. Boots lined beneath benches. The quiet before noise.
Francesco moved to his spot, set his bag down, and changed into the training kit without rushing. The hum of voices rose gradually as players did the same.
"City lineup's strong," Xhaka muttered, lacing his boots.
"They always are," Kanté replied, already bouncing lightly on his toes, restless energy contained only by habit.
Wenger entered just before they headed out, nodding once.
"Warm up," he said. "Focus."
The pitch greeted them with perfect green, the stands still filling, the low roar of early-arriving fans echoing faintly. Arsenal players jogged out together, a ripple of applause greeting them.
Francesco took his first touches calmly, letting the ball roll under his foot, feeling the grass respond. His body recognized the space instantly.
Passing drills. Stretching. Short sprints.
Alexis was sharp, snapping into every movement with intensity. Walcott looked eager, almost impatient. Özil glided rather than ran, economy of motion making everything look effortless.
City players emerged on the opposite side not long after. Blue kits. Familiar faces.
David Silva caught Francesco's eye briefly from across the pitch. A nod passed between them. Mutual respect, honed over years of competition.
When the warm-up ended, both teams headed back toward their dressing rooms, the noise in the stadium building now, swelling with expectation.
Inside Arsenal's room again, the atmosphere shifted.
This was the final moment of quiet.
Players changed into match kits with practiced motions. Red shirts pulled on. Socks adjusted. Shin pads secured.
Francesco slipped the captain's armband over his sleeve, tugging it into place with a small, habitual motion.
Wenger waited until everyone was seated.
Then he spoke.
"Today," he began, voice calm, measured, "is about intelligence as much as intensity."
He gestured toward the tactical board.
"Petr," he said, "starts in goal."
Čech nodded once, expression composed.
"Defence," Wenger continued, "Nacho on the left. Virgil and Laurent in the centre. Kyle on the right."
Walker rolled his shoulders, already buzzing.
"In midfield," Wenger said, "N'Golo and Granit as the base. Mesut ahead of them."
Özil glanced up, meeting Wenger's eyes briefly.
"Alexis left. Theo right."
Both wingers nodded, already visualizing the spaces.
"And Francesco," Wenger finished, looking directly at him, "up front. Captain."
There was no applause. No drama.
Just acceptance.
Wenger went on, speaking about City's movement, about Silva drifting into pockets, about discipline and patience. About taking moments when they came.
On the bench, he reminded them, were Martínez, Mustafi, Robertson, Bellerín, Cazorla, Gnabry, and Giroud. Options. Depth. Trust.
When he finished, Wenger stepped back.
"This is your match," he said simply.
They stood together then, arms briefly linking in a tight circle. No shouting. Just a shared breath.
Then the knock came.
Time.
They filed out into the tunnel, boots echoing against the concrete, hearts beating a little faster with every step. The noise from the stadium poured in now, loud and alive.
Manchester City stood beside them, already lined up.
David Silva was at the front, armband tight around his sleeve, expression calm but alert. Their eyes met again, closer now.
"Good luck," Silva said quietly.
Francesco nodded. "Same to you."
The referee raised his hand.
And then they walked.
Out into the light. Onto the pitch. Into the roar.
They lined up beside the officials, shaking hands with referees, then with City players. Firm grips. Brief eye contact. Professional respect wrapped around competitive fire.
The cameras flashed. The crowd surged.
Arsenal's starting eleven gathered for the photograph, arms around shoulders, faces set. Francesco stood at the centre, armband bright against red.
Then it was time for the captains.
He walked with Silva toward the referee, listening as the coin spun in the air, glinting briefly before landing.
Silva chose right.
City would kick off.
Silva's choice barely registered in Francesco's mind once it was made.
Kick-off was kick-off. Left or right, it didn't change what the next ninety minutes would demand.
The referee stepped away, raised his whistle, and for a split second the Emirates held its breath.
Then the sound cut through the air.
The ball rolled.
Manchester City tapped it backward, neat and precise, and immediately the shape of the game began to reveal itself.
From the first seconds, it was clear there would be no easing in.
Kevin De Bruyne drifted centrally almost at once, looking to find space between Kanté and Xhaka. David Silva hovered nearby, ghosting into pockets, while Fernandinho anchored himself just behind them, snapping into tackles and recycling possession with ruthless efficiency.
Arsenal responded in kind.
Kanté was everywhere, already harrying De Bruyne, darting into passing lanes, his presence felt even when he didn't touch the ball. Xhaka positioned himself intelligently, body open, constantly scanning, offering angles. Özil floated just ahead, trying to pull City's midfield out of shape with subtle movement rather than outright speed.
The opening exchanges were sharp, technical, tense.
City wanted control. Arsenal wanted disruption.
Every touch in midfield was contested. Every loose ball snapped up by someone willing to fight for it.
Francesco stayed high at first, reading the game, watching City's defensive line adjust with each shift of possession. Otamendi was aggressive, stepping up early. Stones looked composed but cautious. Clichy stayed tight on Walcott's side, wary of pace. Navas held the right, quick and alert.
When Arsenal won the ball, they broke with intent.
Alexis was the first outlet, driving at Navas with that familiar mix of fury and finesse, cutting inside whenever space allowed. Walcott stayed wide on the right, stretching the pitch, always threatening the channel between Clichy and Stones.
Francesco moved between the centre-backs, sometimes dropping to link play, sometimes spinning in behind, constantly asking questions.
Caballero watched from his goal line, adjusting his gloves, barking instructions in Spanish.
At the other end, Arsenal's defence was immediately tested.
Sterling darted down the flank, quick feet flashing. Sané's pace was a constant danger, his runs explosive and direct. Agüero hovered centrally, sharp, always on the shoulder of the last defender.
Van Dijk and Koscielny communicated constantly, glances and gestures ensuring they moved as one. Walker matched Sané stride for stride when needed, while Monreal stayed disciplined, tracking Sterling's movement carefully.
Čech remained calm behind them, voice steady, hands ready.
The first few minutes were a statement: this would be a battle.
At the seventh minute, City struck.
It began innocuously enough.
Fernandinho intercepted a loose pass in midfield, snapping into the challenge before Xhaka could recover. He fed De Bruyne immediately, the Belgian already turning, already looking forward.
Francesco felt the shift before he saw it.
De Bruyne took one touch, then slipped the ball into space with devastating precision.
Sané exploded into the channel.
Walker reacted instantly, sprinting back, but Sané had half a yard, and half a yard was all he needed. He drove into the box, cutting inside just enough to open the angle.
Van Dijk stepped across, trying to block the shot.
Sané didn't hesitate.
He struck low, hard, across goal.
Čech stretched, fingertips grazing air, but the ball skidded past him and into the far corner.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the City fans found their voices, a sharp pocket of noise cutting through the Emirates.
0–1.
Francesco stood still for a moment, hands on hips, eyes on the net as it rippled gently before settling.
He turned immediately.
"Reset," he called, clapping his hands once, loudly. "Straight away."
There was no panic in his voice. No frustration. Just command.
Arsenal gathered themselves quickly. Kanté jogged back to position. Xhaka nodded once, jaw set. Özil adjusted his socks, eyes already scanning for the restart.
City retreated into shape, confidence buoyed.
From the kickoff, Arsenal pushed.
The response was measured, not frantic. They didn't rush passes or force angles that weren't there. They moved the ball patiently, probing.
Monreal began to advance more aggressively down the left, overlapping Alexis whenever the opportunity presented itself. Walcott stayed high on the right, forcing Clichy to remain deeper than he might have liked.
Francesco dropped slightly, drawing Otamendi with him, opening space behind.
At fifteen minutes, Arsenal created their first real opening.
Özil found Walcott with a disguised pass that split midfield and defence. Walcott took it in stride, cut inside Stones, and unleashed a shot from the edge of the box.
Caballero parried sharply, pushing the ball wide.
Alexis chased the rebound, but Navas recovered just in time, clearing into touch.
The Emirates responded, noise swelling, belief beginning to stir.
City tried to slow the tempo, recycling possession through Fernandinho and Silva, but Arsenal pressed higher now, Kanté snapping at heels, Xhaka stepping forward to intercept.
Francesco felt it building.
The equaliser came at the twenty-fourth minute.
It started on the left.
Monreal received the ball near the halfway line, looked up, and saw Alexis dragging Navas narrow. With space ahead of him, Monreal drove forward, head up, stride strong.
Francesco drifted toward the near post instinctively, pulling Otamendi with him.
Özil ghosted into the box, occupying Stones just enough.
Monreal didn't hesitate.
He whipped the ball in early, low and hard, across the face of goal.
Francesco met it with perfect timing.
One touch.
Right foot.
Clean.
The strike flew past Caballero before he could set himself, slamming into the back of the net.
For a split second, Francesco didn't move.
Then the Emirates erupted.
Sound crashed down from every side, raw and unrestrained.
Francesco turned toward the crowd, arms spread, face lit with something fierce and joyful all at once. Teammates swarmed him with Alexis first, then Walcott, then Özil, Kanté, Xhaka as all shouting, all pounding his back.
1–1.
He pointed back toward Monreal, acknowledging the assist, then jogged back toward the centre circle, breathing deeply, adrenaline humming through his veins.
City looked unsettled now.
The rhythm they'd established had been disrupted, and Arsenal sensed it.
They pressed harder.
Özil began to find pockets of space, slipping between Fernandinho and the centre-backs. Kanté won ball after ball, each recovery feeding the crowd's energy.
At the fortieth minute, Arsenal took the lead.
It was a goal born of patience and precision.
Xhaka switched play quickly, spraying the ball out wide to the right. Walcott controlled it cleanly, taking on Clichy with confidence.
Özil drifted into space just outside the box, calling for it with a subtle gesture.
Walcott cut the ball back perfectly.
Özil took one touch to set himself, then slipped a pass through the narrowest of gaps.
Walcott had continued his run.
He met the ball in stride and finished first time, low and precise, past Caballero's outstretched leg.
2–1.
The Emirates exploded again.
Walcott slid on his knees toward the corner flag, arms wide, grin splitting his face. Francesco reached him first, hauling him up, shouting something lost in the noise.
City looked stunned.
They tried to respond immediately, pushing numbers forward, De Bruyne firing a shot from distance that Čech gathered comfortably.
The remaining minutes of the half passed in a tense blur.
City pressed. Arsenal defended intelligently.
Van Dijk made a crucial interception to deny Agüero. Koscielny blocked a Sané cross at full stretch. Walker tracked Sterling relentlessly, refusing to give him space.
When the referee blew for halftime, the scoreline remained.
Arsenal 2.
Manchester City 1.
Players trudged toward the tunnel, sweat-soaked, chests heaving.
Francesco walked with purpose, mind already turning to what would come next.
Inside the dressing room, the noise faded, replaced by the steady hiss of breath, the clatter of boots on floor, the rustle of shirts being peeled away.
Wenger waited until everyone had settled.
He didn't shout.
He never needed to.
"We are doing many things well," he said calmly. "But this is not finished."
He spoke about City's adjustments, about De Bruyne's movement, about the danger of switching off for even a moment.
"We must be compact," he said. "We must be intelligent."
He looked at Francesco.
"Lead them."
Francesco nodded once.
The second half awaited.
The second half began without ceremony.
No grand reset. No slow re-entry into the contest.
Just a whistle, a breath, and the immediate understanding that Manchester City would not wait.
They came out sharp. Purposeful. Hurt pride sharpened into intent.
From the restart, David Silva dropped deeper, almost alongside Fernandinho, demanding the ball earlier. De Bruyne pushed higher, occupying that half-space behind Kanté and Xhaka. Agüero drifted wider than before, trying to pull Van Dijk out of the centre. Sané stayed high, stretching the pitch, daring Walker to follow him all the way.
Arsenal barely had time to settle.
The Emirates, still buzzing from the first half, hadn't quite found its voice again when City struck.
It was the forty-seventh minute.
The kind of goal that punished even the smallest lapse.
Silva received the ball near the centre circle, back to goal, Kanté tight behind him. For a moment it looked contained. Then Silva did what Silva had done his entire career.
He turned away from pressure with a single touch, slipping Kanté just enough to open his body. De Bruyne was already moving, dragging Xhaka with him, creating a narrow corridor through the middle.
Agüero sensed it instantly.
He peeled off Koscielny's shoulder, darting into that pocket of space between centre-back and full-back. Silva didn't hesitate. The pass was weighted perfectly, threaded through bodies as if they weren't there at all.
Agüero took it in stride.
One touch to steady.
Second touch to finish.
Low, precise, inside the post.
Čech reacted, but the shot was gone before the thought fully formed.
2–2.
The Emirates exhaled sharply, the noise collapsing into a murmur that felt more stunned than angry.
Agüero turned away calmly, fist clenched briefly, teammates converging on him. City had their equaliser, and they'd earned it.
Francesco stood near the centre circle again, hands on hips, eyes fixed ahead.
This time, he didn't clap.
He spoke.
"Same again," he said, voice firm, carrying to those closest to him. "Nothing changes."
There was something in his tone that cut through the disappointment. Not defiance. Not frustration.
Control.
Arsenal regrouped quickly. Kanté shook his head once, already replaying the moment in his mind, then reset. Xhaka clapped his hands together sharply. Özil jogged back into position, expression unreadable but alert.
The match settled into a new rhythm.
City, emboldened by the goal, tried to dominate possession. Fernandinho stepped higher. De Bruyne demanded the ball constantly, switching play, probing. Sané tested Walker again and again, quick changes of pace forcing full-throttle recovery runs.
Arsenal responded by tightening up.
The midfield dropped five yards deeper. Kanté stayed closer to Xhaka now, less adventurous but more destructive. Özil worked harder off the ball, tracking runs, blocking passing lanes with subtle positioning.
Francesco adjusted too.
He didn't stay as high. Instead, he began dropping into midfield pockets, dragging Otamendi with him, sometimes Stones, sometimes both. Every movement had intent. Every run created a reaction.
Alexis sensed it and adjusted, drifting more centrally at times, letting Monreal overlap freely. Walcott remained wide, but he was tiring, legs heavy from the constant sprints.
City came close again at the fifty-sixth minute.
De Bruyne struck from distance, the ball swerving wickedly toward the top corner. Čech tipped it over with strong hands, landing awkwardly but springing up immediately, shouting instructions.
The corner came to nothing, Van Dijk rising above everyone to clear decisively.
The game hung on a knife edge now.
Every challenge felt heavier. Every duel more personal.
Francesco felt the minutes in his legs, but he also felt something else.
The opening.
It came at the sixty-seventh minute.
And it came from pressure.
Kanté started it.
Fernandinho tried to shield the ball near the centre circle, body angled, arm out. Kanté didn't rush. He waited, read the touch, then snapped in with perfect timing, toe poking the ball free.
In an instant, Arsenal were moving.
Kanté surged forward, head up. De Bruyne tried to recover, stretching to block the lane, but Kanté slipped past him with a burst of acceleration that belied how much ground he'd already covered.
Francesco saw it unfolding before anyone else.
He peeled away from Otamendi, drifting into the channel between centre-back and full-back, hand slightly raised. Stones hesitated for half a second, unsure whether to step or hold.
That half-second was fatal.
Kanté released the pass.
It wasn't flashy. It didn't need to be.
It was perfect.
Francesco took it on the move, first touch opening his body toward goal. Caballero rushed off his line, arms spread, trying to narrow the angle.
Francesco didn't panic.
He waited until the last possible moment.
Then he lifted the ball gently over the keeper's outstretched hand.
Time slowed.
The ball arced.
Dropped.
And kissed the inside of the net.
3–2.
The Emirates detonated.
This time, there was no stunned pause. No intake of breath.
Just pure, unfiltered release.
Francesco wheeled away, roaring, fist punching the air as teammates sprinted toward him. Kanté reached him first, arms wrapping around him in an almost shy embrace before being swallowed by the rest.
Alexis screamed something incoherent. Xhaka thumped Francesco's chest. Özil smiled, small and satisfied, jogging in last, hand raised in acknowledgement.
Francesco pointed at Kanté, emphatic, making sure the crowd followed his gesture.
They did.
The chant rolled down in waves.
City looked rattled again.
Pep Guardiola stood near the touchline, arms folded tightly, jaw set. He glanced at his bench, already calculating.
Four minutes later, the changes came.
Wenger was first.
The fourth official raised the board.
Francesco's number.
Walcott's.
Özil's.
A murmur rippled through the stadium.
Francesco looked toward the bench, surprised for a fraction of a second, then nodded. He understood. Legs heavy. Game entering a different phase.
Giroud rose first, towering, focused. Gnabry bounced lightly on his toes, eager. Cazorla followed, calm, almost serene.
As Francesco jogged toward the touchline, the Emirates rose as one.
The applause wasn't just loud.
It was grateful.
Francesco clapped back, hand raised, then paused near Wenger. They exchanged a brief look. No words. Just understanding.
"Good," Wenger said quietly.
Francesco nodded, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as he stepped off.
At the same moment, Guardiola made his own moves.
Sterling came off, frustration etched across his face, replaced by Yaya Touré, presence and power entering the midfield. Navas, on a yellow and struggling with Alexis' movement, was replaced by Zabaleta, solid, experienced, pragmatic.
The shape of the match shifted instantly.
Arsenal settled into something more compact now.
Giroud took up position up front, a different kind of focal point. Balls were held up rather than chased. Gnabry injected fresh pace down the right, immediately testing Clichy with direct runs. Cazorla slotted into midfield, offering control, rhythm, calm.
Francesco took his seat on the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, eyes never leaving the pitch.
His work was done.
But the match wasn't.
City pushed. Harder now. Yaya Touré drove forward with power, shrugging off challenges. De Bruyne continued to probe, frustration growing with every blocked pass. Silva tried to dictate tempo again, but Cazorla read him brilliantly, intercepting, slowing things down.
Arsenal defended with discipline.
Van Dijk was immense, clearing everything that came near him. Koscielny matched Agüero stride for stride. Walker, despite the miles in his legs, continued to chase Sané relentlessly. Monreal tucked in when needed, smart, selfless.
Čech commanded his box, punching, catching, calming.
From the bench, Francesco stood once, then again, clapping, urging, shouting encouragement whenever the ball went out of play near him.
"Hold it," he called once to Giroud.
"Breathe," he shouted toward midfield during a brief lull.
The Emirates responded too, sensing the moment, lifting the team when legs threatened to falter.
Pep Guardiola didn't wait.
He never did.
As the clock ticked past the seventy-fifth minute, he stepped out of his technical area, arms slicing the air, voice sharp, insistent. His message was clear even to those high in the stands.
Push.
Higher. Faster. Braver.
City responded immediately.
Fernandinho dropped between the centre-backs to start moves earlier. Yaya Touré surged forward with long, powerful strides, demanding the ball, bullying space into existence. De Bruyne drifted wider, then snapped back inside, trying to overload whichever side Arsenal looked weakest on in that moment. Silva hovered constantly, refusing to let the game slow, tapping, turning, gesturing for movement.
City's possession climbed. The ball began to move almost exclusively in red and blue shirts, circulating patiently but with an edge of urgency. Arsenal were forced deeper now, lines compressed, bodies closer together.
From the bench, Wenger watched carefully.
He didn't panic.
He adjusted.
With a subtle wave of his hand and a brief instruction passed down the line, Arsenal's shape shifted. No longer intent on contesting possession for possession's sake, they dropped into a compact, disciplined block, inviting City forward.
And waiting.
Counter-attacking football had always been part of Arsenal's DNA, even when it was unfashionable to admit it. Tonight, with fresh legs and space beginning to appear behind City's aggressive press, it became a weapon.
The first warning came almost immediately.
At the seventy-sixth minute, City overcommitted down the right. De Bruyne slipped a pass wide to Zabaleta, who surged forward to support the attack. The cross was blocked by Monreal, and the ball ricocheted loose.
Cazorla was there.
He didn't rush. He never did.
One touch to bring it under control. A glance up. Another to turn away from pressure. Then, with the outside of his foot, he threaded the ball into Giroud's feet.
The Frenchman held it up beautifully, back to goal, body strong, absorbing Otamendi's challenge. He laid it off to Alexis with a cushioned touch, and suddenly Arsenal were flying.
Alexis drove forward, Gnabry sprinting alongside him, Kanté thundering up from deep. The Emirates rose in anticipation.
But City scrambled well.
Stones recovered, timing his tackle perfectly. Fernandinho slid across to block the passing lane. The move fizzled out just inside the box.
Still, the message was sent.
City were vulnerable.
Pep barked again, urging his side to keep pressing, to keep pushing numbers forward. He knew the risk. He accepted it.
Arsenal accepted it too.
The match stretched now, end to end, breathless.
At the seventy-eighth minute, City nearly pulled one back.
Silva slipped De Bruyne through on the edge of the box. The Belgian shot first time, curling toward the far corner. Čech sprang to his right, fingertips brushing the ball just enough to divert it onto the post.
The rebound fell to Agüero.
For a heartbeat, the Emirates froze.
Van Dijk threw himself across the Argentine's path, blocking the shot with his thigh, the impact echoing like a drumbeat. The clearance was ugly, desperate, but effective.
Francesco leapt to his feet on the bench, fists clenched, shouting his approval.
Moments later, Arsenal struck.
It was the seventy-ninth minute.
And it was devastating.
City committed men forward again, Touré driving into the box, De Bruyne hovering nearby. When the move broke down, Cazorla was there to collect, calm as ever.
He turned away from pressure with a spin so smooth it drew gasps. Fernandinho lunged and missed. De Bruyne hesitated, unsure whether to foul.
Cazorla didn't give them the chance.
He slid a perfectly weighted pass into space behind Stones.
Giroud was already moving.
The run was clever rather than quick, curved to stay onside, body leaning forward with intent. He met the ball inside the box, took one touch to steady himself, then smashed it low past Caballero with his left foot.
4–2.
The Emirates exploded into absolute delirium.
Giroud roared, fists pumping, before being mobbed by teammates. Cazorla was swallowed in the celebration, grinning, arms raised apologetically as if surprised by his own brilliance.
On the bench, Francesco threw his arms around the nearest substitute, laughing, shouting, eyes shining.
Pep stood still.
For once, there was no instruction.
Just a tight jaw and a long stare at the pitch.
City tried to respond, but something had shifted irreversibly now. Their urgency turned ragged. Passes were forced. Runs mistimed. Arsenal, by contrast, looked liberated.
They defended with intelligence and broke with venom.
At the eighty-third minute, another counter nearly killed the game entirely. Alexis surged down the left, beating Zabaleta for pace before cutting inside. He slipped the ball to Gnabry, who shot low, forcing Caballero into a strong save.
The crowd sensed blood.
City pushed again, throwing bodies forward, leaving acres of space behind.
And Arsenal punished them one final time.
It came in the eighty-eighth minute.
And it was ruthless.
Kanté intercepted a tired pass in midfield, reading it before it happened. He played it quickly to Alexis, who had drifted into a pocket of space near the touchline.
Alexis took one touch, then accelerated.
Zabaleta tried to close him down. Stones stepped across. Neither could match his intensity.
Alexis cut inside, head up, eyes scanning.
Gnabry was sprinting through the middle, timing his run perfectly.
The pass was immaculate.
Gnabry met it in stride and finished with composure beyond his years, sliding the ball calmly into the bottom corner.
5–2.
The Emirates transcended noise.
It became something physical, something overwhelming. Sound crashed and rolled, chants overlapping, strangers hugging, disbelief giving way to joy.
On the bench, Francesco stood frozen for a moment, taking it all in.
Five.
Against Manchester City.
In a match that had once hung on the finest of margins.
The final minutes passed almost gently by comparison.
City kept the ball, pride forcing them to continue, but the fight had gone out of them. Arsenal sat deep, compact, disciplined, every clearance cheered like a goal.
When the referee finally raised the whistle and blew for full time, it felt like an exhale that had been building all night.
Arsenal 5.
Manchester City 2.
Players dropped to the turf, some laughing, some exhausted, some simply staring up at the floodlights. Francesco stepped onto the pitch, pulling teammates into embraces, clapping the crowd, heart pounding with a deep, satisfied rhythm.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 40
Goal: 63
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9