If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
_____________________________
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Because somewhere along the way, something fundamental had changed, the club no longer measured itself against Europe's giants as they had become one of them.
The realization settled over Arsenal slowly.
Not in one dramatic moment.
Not through a speech.
Not through a headline.
But through repetition.
Results.
Performances.
Consistency.
The sort of consistency that changed how people viewed a football club.
A few years ago, supporters might have looked at a potential Champions League draw against Real Madrid or Barcelona with anxiety.
Now?
The feeling was different.
Respect remained.
Of course it did.
You didn't stop respecting clubs like Real Madrid or Barcelona.
But fear had disappeared.
Arsenal had earned that.
The squad knew it.
The supporters knew it.
And perhaps most importantly, the rest of Europe knew it too.
Still, football never allowed anyone to spend too much time admiring themselves.
Because while television panels debated potential Round of 16 opponents and newspapers filled pages with speculation, another reality existed.
Fixtures.
Always fixtures.
The calendar remained relentless.
December had become a blur of travel, training sessions, tactical meetings, recovery work, and matchdays.
One game finished.
Another immediately appeared.
The season kept moving.
And Arsenal kept moving with it.
A few days later, the squad boarded the team coach for the journey south toward the coast.
Southampton away.
St Mary's Stadium.
Another Premier League challenge.
Another difficult test.
Winter had tightened its grip on England now.
The roads looked damp beneath gray skies while supporters gathered outside hotels and stadium entrances hoping for glimpses of players.
Inside the Arsenal coach, however, things felt remarkably normal.
Sánchez sat staring out the window.
Focused.
Silent.
Already mentally playing the match.
Ozil relaxed with headphones on.
Walker was explaining something completely ridiculous to Bellerin.
Robertson looked trapped beside him.
Again.
Some things never changed.
Francesco glanced toward the back of the bus where Saka and Smith Rowe sat together.
The youngsters looked far more comfortable now than they had on their first morning with the senior squad.
The nervousness was fading.
Not gone entirely.
But fading.
They belonged.
And everyone could see it.
The journey passed quickly.
Eventually the stadium appeared.
St Mary's.
Compact.
Loud.
Difficult.
Exactly the sort of ground where title races could become complicated.
Southampton always made life uncomfortable.
That was part of their identity.
Well organized.
Hardworking.
Disciplined.
The kind of team that punished complacency.
Which meant Wenger spent much of the pre-match preparation emphasizing focus.
Concentration.
Patience.
The usual details.
The important details.
The match itself proved exactly as difficult as expected.
Southampton pressed aggressively.
Closed passing lanes.
Competed for every loose ball.
The first half became a battle rather than a football exhibition.
Arsenal enjoyed possession but struggled to create clear opportunities.
Every attack seemed to run into white shirts.
Every opening disappeared quickly.
The home supporters sensed frustration growing.
And they made themselves heard.
By halftime the score remained level.
No panic.
No concern.
Just a reminder that Premier League matches rarely came easily.
Inside the dressing room Wenger remained calm.
As always.
The manager adjusted a few tactical details.
Encouraged quicker movement.
More direct running.
More aggression around the penalty area.
The players listened.
Then returned to the pitch.
And slowly the game began changing.
The breakthrough arrived midway through the second half.
A familiar combination.
Kanté recovered possession.
Naturally.
The Frenchman seemed physically incapable of allowing opponents to keep the ball for extended periods.
A quick exchange followed through midfield.
Ozil found space.
Also naturally.
And suddenly Francesco was making a run between defenders.
The pass arrived perfectly.
The captain controlled on the move.
One touch.
Then another.
The Southampton goalkeeper rushed forward.
The angle narrowed.
The crowd rose.
Francesco remained calm.
A low finish.
Across goal.
Into the corner.
Goal.
The away section erupted.
Arsenal players immediately surrounded him.
Relief mixed with celebration.
Not because they doubted themselves.
Because breaking down stubborn opponents always felt satisfying.
Especially away from home.
One-nil.
The match opened after that.
Southampton had no choice.
They pushed forward.
Committed more players.
Took risks.
And eventually paid the price.
Another flowing attack.
Another dangerous cross.
This time Giroud was waiting.
The French striker met it exactly the way he had met hundreds of similar deliveries throughout his career.
Powerful.
Clinical.
Unstoppable.
Two-nil.
Game seemingly over.
Southampton pulled one back late.
Enough to create a few nervous moments.
Enough to remind Arsenal that nothing was guaranteed.
But not enough to change the outcome.
The final whistle arrived.
Southampton one.
Arsenal two.
Another victory.
Another three points.
Another step forward in the title race.
A week later came another away trip.
This time east.
Toward the London Stadium.
West Ham.
A very different challenge.
A very different atmosphere.
And a very different match.
From the opening whistle, something felt difficult.
Not disastrous.
Just difficult.
West Ham defended deep.
Disciplined.
Compact.
Every attacking move seemed to encounter resistance.
The spaces that Arsenal normally exploited simply weren't there.
Francesco found defenders surrounding him whenever he received possession.
Sánchez ran relentlessly.
Ozil searched endlessly.
Yet clear opportunities remained frustratingly rare.
The first half passed without a breakthrough.
The second half felt remarkably similar.
West Ham grew stronger as the match progressed.
The home crowd sensed something.
Belief.
Possibility.
Their players responded.
Challenges became harder.
Duels became fiercer.
Every inch of space required a fight.
Arsenal still looked dangerous.
A Sánchez effort forced a good save.
A Francesco shot flashed narrowly wide.
Giroud rattled the crossbar after coming off the bench.
But somehow the ball refused to enter the net.
At the other end, Čech produced several important interventions.
Nothing spectacular.
Just professional.
Reliable.
The kind of goalkeeping that earned points over a season.
Eventually the referee checked his watch.
Then blew the final whistle.
Nil-nil.
A draw.
Not the result Arsenal wanted.
But not a disaster either.
The dressing room afterward reflected that reality.
Nobody celebrated.
Nobody panicked.
Football seasons weren't built entirely on victories.
Sometimes they were built on avoiding defeats.
And this felt like one of those evenings.
"We move on," Wenger said simply.
And they did.
Because another fixture already waited.
The EFL Cup quarter-final arrived only days later.
And once again the opponent was West Ham.
Football enjoyed strange coincidences.
This was one of them.
The atmosphere around London Colney felt slightly different in the build-up.
Partly because of fixture congestion.
Partly because Wenger intended to rotate heavily.
The manager trusted his squad.
Always had.
And this competition offered opportunities.
For experienced squad players.
For returning players.
For young players.
Especially young players.
When the lineup was finally announced, there were plenty of smiles around the training ground.
In goal stood Raya.
Ahead of him a defensive line of Monreal, Holding, Mustafi, and Bellerin.
A solid back four.
Reliable.
Experienced.
In midfield Wenger selected Ramsey, Cazorla, and a particularly welcome name.
Jack Wilshere.
Back from injury.
Back where he belonged.
The sight alone generated excitement among supporters.
Few players embodied Arsenal quite like Wilshere.
His return mattered.
Emotionally as much as tactically.
Further forward came Iwobi, Walcott, and Giroud.
A strong attacking trio.
But the biggest talking point arrived when Wenger gathered the squad before kickoff.
The manager looked toward two familiar young faces.
Bukayo Saka.
Emile Smith Rowe.
The teenagers immediately straightened.
Every player in the room already knew.
Still, hearing it made the moment real.
"You'll be involved tonight."
For a second neither spoke.
Neither moved.
The significance hit them simultaneously.
Debut.
Real debut.
Not training sessions.
Not bench appearances.
Not possibilities.
Reality.
First-team football.
Arsenal football.
At a competitive level.
Francesco happened to be nearby when Wenger finished speaking.
The captain immediately noticed the expressions on their faces.
Excitement.
Disbelief.
Nerves.
Every emotion fighting for space.
He remembered that feeling.
Perfectly.
"You two alright?"
Saka laughed nervously.
"No."
Smith Rowe nodded.
"Definitely not."
Francesco grinned.
"Good."
Both looked confused.
Again.
The same reaction as before.
"Means it matters."
That earned understanding.
And perhaps a little comfort.
Before heading out, Francesco placed a hand briefly on each shoulder.
"Enjoy it."
Simple advice.
The best advice.
Because opportunities like first-team debuts only happened once.
The match itself unfolded beautifully for Arsenal.
Not easy.
But controlled.
West Ham competed hard.
Just as they always did.
Yet the rotated Arsenal side played with energy and purpose.
Wilshere looked sharp despite his absence.
Every touch seemed to remind supporters what they had missed.
Cazorla dictated tempo effortlessly.
Ramsey covered enormous ground.
Giroud bullied defenders.
The breakthrough arrived in the first half.
A flowing move through midfield created space out wide.
The cross came in.
Giroud attacked it.
Goal.
One-nil.
Classic Giroud.
The celebration felt less about the goal and more about relief.
West Ham had been stubborn again.
Breaking through mattered.
The second goal arrived later.
And this one belonged to Walcott.
Quick movement.
Sharp passing.
A precise finish.
Two-nil.
Game under control.
But while supporters celebrated the goals, many eyes remained fixed on the touchline.
Waiting.
Watching.
And eventually the moment arrived.
Saka.
Smith Rowe.
Both introduced.
Both making their Arsenal debuts.
The reception from the crowd was immediate.
Warm.
Genuine.
Proud.
Academy graduates always meant something special.
Especially at Arsenal.
The two youngsters entered with visible nerves.
Naturally.
Then football took over.
As it always did.
Saka attacked defenders without hesitation.
Smith Rowe found clever pockets of space.
Neither looked overwhelmed.
Neither hid.
And that mattered.
The bench noticed.
The coaches noticed.
The supporters noticed.
Most importantly, Wenger noticed.
By the final whistle both looked exhausted.
And absolutely delighted.
Arsenal two.
West Ham nil.
Semi-final secured.
Job done.
But for Saka and Smith Rowe?
The result almost felt secondary.
Because long after the crowd left and long after the headlines focused on Giroud and Walcott's goals, the two academy boys would remember something else.
Their first Arsenal appearance.
Their first minutes in front of thousands.
Their first step into the world they had dreamed about since childhood.
And as the players celebrated quietly in the dressing room afterward, Francesco caught sight of them sitting together.
Still smiling.
Still processing everything.
The same way they had looked after their first senior training session.
Only this time the dream had grown larger.
Because now they weren't just training with the first team.
They had played for it.
The smile never really left Saka's face.
Or Smith Rowe's.
Even after the dressing room began emptying.
Even after boots disappeared into bags and recovery drinks were finished.
Even after teammates started heading home.
The two academy graduates still looked like they were trying to convince themselves the evening had actually happened.
Because some moments felt too big to process immediately.
A first-team debut was one of them.
Francesco noticed them still sitting together as he finished packing his own belongings.
Neither was speaking much anymore.
The adrenaline had started fading.
Reality was beginning to settle.
The realization that they had just played competitive football for Arsenal.
Not youth football.
Not reserve football.
Arsenal.
The club they had grown up dreaming about representing.
The captain walked over.
"You two planning on sleeping tonight?"
Both laughed.
Saka shook his head.
"Probably not."
"Fair."
Smith Rowe looked down briefly.
Then smiled.
"My family's phone calls alone will probably keep me awake."
"That sounds accurate."
"About fifty messages already."
"Only fifty?"
The youngster laughed.
"Actually… more like two hundred."
"Now that sounds realistic."
The three of them shared another laugh.
Around them, the dressing room continued gradually emptying.
The atmosphere remained warm.
Comfortable.
Another victory.
Another successful night.
Another step forward.
The season simply kept moving.
And Arsenal kept moving with it.
The days passed quickly.
Far too quickly.
December football had a habit of doing that.
Matches seemed to arrive before players had fully recovered from the previous one.
Training sessions blended together.
Recovery work.
Gym sessions.
Video analysis.
Travel.
Preparation.
Competition.
Repeat.
The rhythm never stopped.
And before long another fixture arrived.
This time at home.
The Emirates Stadium.
Newcastle United.
Another Premier League challenge.
Another opportunity to strengthen Arsenal's position at the top of the table.
Matchday arrived beneath a cold London sky.
The sort of winter afternoon where supporters wrapped scarves tighter around their necks and warm drinks seemed just as important as match tickets.
By the time the Arsenal team bus rolled toward the Emirates, thousands of supporters had already gathered around the stadium.
The atmosphere felt good.
Confident.
Excited.
Not complacent.
Just optimistic.
Because this team had earned optimism.
Inside the bus, the mood was calm.
Focused.
Professional.
Most players followed familiar routines.
Headphones.
Music.
Phones.
Quiet conversations.
The little habits footballers developed over years of competition.
Walker was somehow still talking.
A fact nobody found surprising anymore.
Bellerin appeared trapped beside him once again.
A recurring tragedy.
Francesco sat near the front looking out the window.
Watching supporters gathering around the stadium.
Watching children wearing shirts with players' names on the back.
Watching families arriving hours before kickoff.
Those moments never became normal.
No matter how many years he played.
No matter how many goals he scored.
Seeing people spend their weekends supporting Arsenal always meant something.
Always would.
The match itself unfolded very differently from the difficult draw against West Ham.
From the opening whistle Arsenal looked sharp.
Aggressive.
Energetic.
The ball moved quickly.
Possession flowed naturally.
Newcastle defended well.
Organized.
Disciplined.
But Arsenal's movement gradually began pulling them apart.
Ozil floated between lines.
Sánchez pressed relentlessly.
Kanté seemed to recover every loose ball within a thirty-yard radius.
And Francesco constantly searched for gaps.
Eventually one appeared.
Twenty-eighth minute.
The move began deep inside Arsenal territory.
A quick recovery from Kanté.
A pass into midfield.
Then another.
Then another.
Suddenly the entire attack accelerated.
The ball reached Ozil.
Naturally.
Whenever something dangerous happened, Mesut Ozil usually existed somewhere nearby.
The German lifted his head.
One glance.
One assessment.
Then the pass.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Francesco immediately burst through the defensive line.
The timing flawless.
The weight flawless.
The sort of pass that made football look much easier than it actually was.
The captain controlled cleanly.
One touch.
Then another.
The goalkeeper rushed forward.
The crowd rose.
The angle narrowed.
Francesco stayed calm.
Always calm.
A low finish rolled beyond the goalkeeper.
Inside the far corner.
Goal.
The Emirates exploded.
The noise swept across the stadium like a wave.
Thousands of supporters leaping to their feet.
Scarves raised.
Voices filling the winter air.
Francesco turned toward the crowd immediately.
Arms spread.
Adrenaline surging.
Then teammates arrived.
Sánchez first.
Always first.
Followed by Ozil.
Kanté.
Bellerin.
Half the team.
The celebration lasted only moments.
But it felt good.
One-nil.
Deserved.
Completely deserved.
The second half continued in much the same way.
Arsenal controlled possession.
Controlled territory.
Controlled the rhythm of the match.
Newcastle worked hard.
To their credit, they never stopped competing.
But Arsenal simply looked stronger.
More confident.
More fluid.
The second goal arrived just after the hour mark.
And it was beautiful.
The sort of goal supporters remembered long after final whistles.
The move involved nearly every outfield player.
Quick passing.
Intelligent movement.
Patience.
Precision.
Everything Wenger loved about football.
Eventually Sánchez slipped a clever pass into the penalty area.
Francesco received it with his back to goal.
Defenders immediately collapsed around him.
Instead of forcing a shot, he spotted movement.
A familiar movement.
Ozil arriving.
The return pass was perfect.
The German met it first time.
Low.
Precise.
Clinical.
Goal.
Two-nil.
The Emirates erupted again.
This time Francesco pointed directly toward Ozil.
The German smiled.
That small smile.
That unmistakably Ozil smile.
The one that appeared whenever football became art.
The remaining minutes passed comfortably.
Professionally.
Arsenal never lost control.
Never invited unnecessary pressure.
Never allowed Newcastle a route back into the game.
When the final whistle finally arrived, the scoreboard reflected the evening accurately.
Arsenal 2.
Newcastle United 0.
Another victory.
Another clean sheet.
Another important three points.
Another reminder that this team remained firmly in control of the Premier League title race.
The celebrations afterward were relatively brief.
December schedules didn't allow for much else.
Players recovered.
Completed media obligations.
Headed home.
Prepared for whatever came next.
Because there was always something next.
For once, however, the squad received something increasingly rare.
A day off.
An actual day off.
Twenty-four precious hours away from training schedules.
Away from tactical meetings.
Away from recovery sessions.
Away from London Colney.
The reaction inside the dressing room when Wenger announced it had been immediate.
Positive.
Very positive.
Walker nearly celebrated like he had scored a winning goal.
"Freedom."
Robertson looked at him.
"It's one day."
"Twenty-four glorious hours."
"You are incredibly dramatic."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Still counts."
Some things truly never changed.
The break arrived at exactly the right moment.
Players spent time with families.
Relaxed.
Recovered physically.
Recovered mentally.
Professional football demanded enormous amounts of energy.
Sometimes the best thing a manager could provide was simply rest.
Francesco spent most of the day at home.
Richmond felt peaceful.
Winter sunlight filtered through the windows.
Cheddar received an unreasonable amount of attention.
Demanded even more.
Received that too.
Leah laughed at him repeatedly.
The corgi remained convinced he ruled the house.
Unfortunately, evidence increasingly supported his claim.
The day passed comfortably.
Quietly.
Exactly the way recovery days should.
But football always returned.
And eventually morning arrived once more.
The next day brought a familiar sight.
London Colney.
Training pitches covered with traces of winter frost.
Players arriving one after another.
Cars filling the parking area.
Staff members moving between buildings.
The heartbeat of Arsenal Football Club.
The break was over.
Preparation had begun.
Because another enormous challenge waited.
Liverpool.
At the Emirates.
One of the biggest matches of the season.
One of the biggest matches in English football.
The sort of fixture players circled on calendars months in advance.
The atmosphere at training reflected that immediately.
There was energy.
Intensity.
Sharpness.
Nobody needed extra motivation.
Not for Liverpool.
Wenger gathered the squad before the morning session.
The players formed a loose semicircle around him.
Coffee cups had disappeared.
Training gear had replaced casual clothing.
The focus was obvious.
The manager waited until everyone settled.
Then began.
"Liverpool."
Just one word.
That was enough.
Everyone understood.
Liverpool remained one of the most dangerous attacking teams in the league.
Aggressive.
Fast.
Relentless.
Capable of punishing mistakes instantly.
Wenger outlined tactical plans carefully.
Pressing triggers.
Defensive responsibilities.
Transition patterns.
Set-piece preparation.
Every detail mattered.
Every instruction carried purpose.
The players listened closely.
Questions were asked.
Adjustments discussed.
Ideas explored.
The meeting lasted longer than usual.
Because important matches demanded extra preparation.
Out on the training pitch, intensity rose immediately.
The football became sharper.
Faster.
More competitive.
Every drill carried extra urgency.
Every exercise carried extra focus.
Sánchez looked as though he wanted the match to start immediately.
A fairly normal state for Sánchez.
Kanté covered absurd amounts of ground.
Again.
Also normal.
Ozil moved effortlessly through possession drills.
Van Dijk dominated aerial work.
Bellerin and Robertson raced each other repeatedly.
Walker claimed he would have won.
Nobody believed him.
Training continued beneath pale winter skies.
Hours passed.
The work accumulated.
The preparation deepened.
Little by little the squad began building toward Liverpool.
During a short break between drills, Francesco stood near midfield watching teammates work through a possession exercise.
Around him, the familiar sounds of training filled the air.
Coaches shouting instructions.
Boots striking footballs.
Laughter.
Competition.
The everyday soundtrack of elite football.
Nearby, Saka and Smith Rowe worked alongside senior players.
And something had changed.
Not dramatically.
Not overnight.
But noticeably.
The uncertainty was fading.
The hesitation was disappearing.
They looked more comfortable now.
More confident.
Like footballers who knew they belonged.
Francesco smiled slightly as he watched them.
The future looked bright.
The present looked even brighter.
And ahead waited Liverpool.
A massive match.
A packed Emirates.
Another opportunity.
Another test.
Another chance to prove exactly why Arsenal sat at the top of the Premier League and why the rest of Europe had begun paying such close attention.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 28
Goal: 35
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
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