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The away end groaned in anguish. Francesco froze, hands on his head. Inches. Literal inches from a goal that would've broken the deadlock and broken United's spirit.
Then the halftime whistle finally pierced the noise like a blade. Players from both sides, still buzzing from the chaos of the final few minutes, trudged toward the tunnel, sweat-soaked and scowling, minds racing with what had just happened and what was still to come.
Francesco walked slowly, his thigh still a bit tight, his pulse still elevated—not just from the run of play, but from the tackle, the scuffle, the roar of the crowd, the crash of the ball against the post. So close. So damn close.
He didn't say a word as he entered the dressing room at Old Trafford. None of them did, not at first. The door slammed shut behind them, the sudden quiet almost jarring. The players found their seats, gulped water, peeled off sweat-drenched shirts. Ice packs were fetched. Towels tossed. Some sat staring at the floor. Others muttered to each other in low, clipped voices.
Wenger entered last, clipboard in hand, glasses slightly fogged. But his expression—calm, composed, sharp—said it all.
"Listen," he said, voice steady but firm, "we should be up. Not by one. By two, maybe three. They are in shambles at the back."
He paced in front of them, eyes sweeping the room. "They're holding on by a thread—and that thread is De Gea. He's having the match of his life. But if we keep pressing, keep attacking… that thread will snap."
Wenger turned to the tactics board and began drawing movements, arrows slicing through the spaces United had left open.
"They are losing structure," he continued. "Blind… that tackle? It wasn't frustration. It was fear. Fear of one player." He looked at Francesco now, locking eyes with him. "They're terrified of you, son."
A ripple of energy moved through the room. Francesco straightened up, towel draped over his shoulders, sweat still dripping from his hair. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. His eyes said it all: he was ready.
Wenger turned to the team. "We've got them. They know it. Let's make them feel it. Second half, we don't retreat. We don't play for the draw. We play like champions. We play to finish them."
He jabbed his finger at the board again. "Alexis, I want you to keep switching sides. Stretch them. Özil, more freedom. Pull them around. And Francesco…"
He faced the 16-year-old again.
"Stay on the move. Don't let them pin you down. Rojo can't deal with your feet. Jones is too slow on the turn. And Blind? You already got in his head."
Francesco gave a single nod. No bravado. Just fire.
Meanwhile, in the other dressing room, the mood was entirely different.
United's players filed in under a heavy cloud. Van Gaal stood at the front with arms crossed. He didn't raise his voice—but he didn't need to. His disappointment filled the space like fog.
"You're lucky it's 0–0," he finally said. "Very lucky."
He tapped the board with the back of his pen, eyes locked on Fellaini and Blind.
"We are too open. Too reactive. Arsenal are controlling the tempo, and that boy—Lee—he is making us look foolish."
Blind looked down, jaw clenched. The tackle had earned him a yellow and nearly a red. But it hadn't stopped Francesco. If anything, it had lit a fuse.
"From now on, he is not allowed space," Van Gaal barked. "You mark him tight. You double up if needed. You foul if needed—smartly. Not like that," he added, eyes narrowing at Blind. "That was reckless. That was emotional. That's not football. That's not United."
He turned to Mata and Herrera. "Push higher. We need better transitions. Get Falcao service. But first and foremost—do not let Lee receive the ball with space to turn."
Van Gaal snapped his folder shut. "This is our ground. We do not let them leave here champions. Understood?"
Murmurs of assent followed. United's players rose, still rattled, but with a fire of their own now. They had been warned. They had been embarrassed. The second half would be war.
Back in Arsenal's dressing room, final words were being shared.
Per leaned down to Francesco, quietly. "Keep your cool. Don't give them an excuse to take you out of the game."
Francesco nodded. "They're not taking anything from me."
He tied his boots tighter. Closed his eyes for a moment. Inhaled deep.
This was the biggest match of his life. The whole season, everything he had worked for, everything he had dreamed of—it all came down to this half.
And he wasn't afraid.
He was ready.
The bell rang. Both teams emerged from the tunnel. The crowd roared again, the tension rising with every step. The air was electric, heavy, the kind of atmosphere that only comes when everything's on the line.
Francesco jogged onto the pitch, glanced up at the scoreboard. 0–0. But not for long.
As the second half kicked off, it was clear—both teams had come out swinging.
The second half began with a crackle in the air, a kind of static that told everyone inside Old Trafford—this wasn't going to be a slow burn. This was going to erupt.
Manchester United, perhaps banking on Arsenal easing into the half, stepped forward cautiously. They expected Wenger to have told his players to settle, to control, to bide time. They thought the Gunners would play it safe.
But Arsenal had other plans.
They came out like they had fire in their boots.
Right from the kickoff, Coquelin crashed into a fifty-fifty with Herrera and won it clean. The ball spilled to Cazorla, who flicked it quickly to Alexis on the left. United's backline, still adjusting, scrambled to reset.
Arsenal didn't let them.
Pass after pass cut through United's early press. Özil dropped deeper, pulling Fellaini out of position. Bellerín overlapped on the right, sucking in Rojo. And in the middle of it all, drifting like smoke through cracks in the foundation, was Francesco.
The tempo didn't drop—it rose.
In the 48th minute, it finally paid off.
Özil collected the ball in midfield, head up, vision scanning. He didn't hesitate. He saw Francesco make a diagonal run between Rojo and Jones—tight space, yes. But Özil didn't need much of a window.
He lofted a perfect ball over the top, a pass as smooth as silk but laced with venom.
Francesco was already moving before it left Özil's foot.
Rojo saw it late. Jones reacted even later. The two defenders converged, trying to box the 16-year-old in. But Francesco didn't stop.
He accelerated.
His first touch was sublime—right foot, just enough to bring the ball down into stride but not enough to lose momentum. Jones lunged. Francesco turned his shoulder, slipped past him. Rojo stuck out a boot, desperate—but Francesco dropped his body, slid the ball under it, and danced free.
Now it was just him and De Gea.
And this time—this time—he didn't hit the post.
He opened his body like he was going to curl it far post. De Gea flinched that way. Francesco snapped his left foot across the ball and sent it low and hard inside the near post.
The net rippled.
The away end exploded.
Francesco ran toward the corner flag, arms stretched, screaming into the roar of Arsenal fans who had traveled all this way for this exact moment. Cazorla was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back. Then came Alexis, Özil, and even Koscielny from the back.
On the touchline, Wenger punched the air, glasses slightly askew. Behind him, Bould was grinning ear to ear.
1–0. Arsenal.
Francesco's name echoed around Old Trafford—not just from the away section. Even some neutrals in the stands clapped. You couldn't not admire that. Sixteen years old, Old Trafford, title on the line—and he buried it.
But Francesco didn't celebrate for long. As the team reset, he looked at the scoreboard, then at the pitch.
There was still a long way to go.
And United?
They weren't going to lie down.
Van Gaal was already barking from the technical area, calling Mata and Di María to push higher. Falcao dropped deeper to link play. The mood shifted again—Old Trafford's crowd began to rise, began to believe.
But Arsenal didn't let up.
In fact, they nearly made it 2–0 five minutes later.
Alexis darted inside from the left, leaving Valencia in his wake, and fizzed a cross toward the penalty spot. Francesco, ghosting in again, got a foot to it—but this time, De Gea was equal to it, diving low to parry the shot wide.
Another roar from the Arsenal end. Another groan from the United faithful.
Francesco stood, hands on hips, nodding to himself.
They couldn't stop him. But they were trying everything.
Blind—already on a yellow—didn't dare get close to Francesco. So they sent Jones. Then Rojo. Then Herrera. It didn't matter. Francesco found space anyway.
The shift came so fast, it was almost hard to process.
One moment, Arsenal looked like they were cruising. Francesco's goal had lit a fire under them, and the Gunners were flying—cutting passes, sharp presses, nearly doubling their lead. Manchester United looked flat-footed, caught in a web of red and white. And then—snap.
It was as if someone flipped a switch.
Suddenly, Manchester United were playing like the Manchester United. Not the version that had stumbled through this transition era. Not Van Gaal's methodical, sometimes robotic system. No—this was the United of old. The Ferguson United. The one that turned games in minutes, broke hearts in seconds. Relentless. Ruthless. Roaring.
It started in the 56th minute.
Herrera won the ball just inside his own half, clipping it away from Cazorla with a crunching challenge that got the home crowd on their feet. Ashley Young picked it up and burst down the wing, for the first time all match finding real space. Coquelin came across, but Ashley Young skipped past him with a sudden drop of the shoulder and whipped in a vicious low cross.
Falcao got there.
The Colombian hadn't done much all game. He'd been muscled off, his runs cut out. But this time, he timed it to perfection. He darted in front of Mertesacker, got the slightest touch—just enough—and the ball fizzed past Ospina into the net.
Old Trafford erupted.
1–1.
Arsenal's players froze. For a second, it was like they couldn't believe it. Koscielny turned and shouted, trying to rally the line. Coquelin punched the ground. Francesco stood near the halfway line, staring into the distance, lips pursed.
Wenger, on the sideline, barked orders. "Reset! Calm!"
But the momentum had shifted, and everyone could feel it.
And before Arsenal could even find their footing again, United struck again.
The 61st minute. Five minutes after Falcao's equalizer. This time it was Mata.
A brilliant bit of link-up play between Herrera and Fellaini on the right opened up space down the flank. Fellaini played it wide to Valencia, who surged forward, rode a tackle from Monreal, and cut it back toward the top of the box.
Mata arrived unmarked.
No one picked him up.
One touch to set. Second touch to curl it.
Top corner. Ospina didn't even dive.
2–1. Old Trafford exploded again. The stadium was shaking. It felt like the clock had reversed a decade and pulled everyone into a time when the Theatre of Dreams was a fortress, when opponents dreaded this stretch of minutes after United scored once—because they always seemed to score again.
Arsenal were shell-shocked.
On the sideline, Wenger's jaw tightened. Bould looked stunned, arms folded, eyes wide. The coaching staff exchanged glances that said: What just happened?
Even the United bench seemed surprised by the ferocity of their own side. Van Gaal turned to Ryan Giggs beside him, both men nodding slowly, almost in disbelief.
Because this wasn't part of the plan. This wasn't the measured, Dutch-style build-up Louis van Gaal preached.
This was instinct. This was chaos. This was passion.
This was Manchester United at Old Trafford.
The fans sang louder than they had all season. The players ran like they'd just remembered who they were. Falcao, Mata, Young—they played with new belief. Fellaini started dominating midfield. Even Blind, moments ago terrified of Francesco, looked emboldened.
But no one was more stunned than Arsenal.
Their players looked around as if searching for answers in the noise. Mertesacker pulled the defense together, gesturing frantically. Coquelin tried to get close to Herrera, who was now controlling tempo. Özil drifted deeper, but couldn't find the space he had earlier. Alexis, usually so explosive, was doubled up on the wing. Giroud up front were stop by Jones and Smalling.
And Francesco?
He stood near the center circle, hands on hips, chest rising and falling.
He'd done everything right. Scored a brilliant goal. Nearly had a second. He'd turned defenders inside out. And yet—here they were. Behind.
The crowd jeered now every time he touched the ball. The same fans who had applauded his goal now heckled him with venom, trying to break his rhythm, break his focus.
But Francesco didn't fold.
He didn't drop his head.
He took a deep breath, looked toward the bench where Wenger stood shouting adjustments—and he nodded to himself.
Still time.
Still fight.
Still everything to play for.
Because champions aren't made in moments of comfort.
They're forged in storms like this.
The question was—could Arsenal rise again? Could a 16-year-old lead them back from the edge? Old Trafford buzzed with energy, the game now transformed into a war of nerves.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 33
Goal: 39
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8