If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
And tomorrow, he'd wear it again—back on the training pitch, back to work. Because loyalty wasn't just a press conference. It was every single day after.
Two weeks passed, and Francesco Lee's powerful declaration of loyalty hadn't faded from memory—it had become part of Arsenal folklore.
For the first 48 hours after the press conference, the football world couldn't talk about anything else. It wasn't just pundits and journalists; it was the fans—the heartbeat of the club—who truly felt the impact. On online forums, in pubs across North London, on the terraces of the Emirates, there was a shared sense of pride and relief. Arsenal, a club so often gutted by the departures of its brightest talents, finally had one who said, "I'm staying."
And he wasn't just any player. He was one of them—an Arsenal boy, born into the culture of the club, raised through the academy, molded in the image of Wenger's philosophy. A supporter before he was a star.
Fans started turning up to the stadium with homemade banners:
"Francesco: One of Our Own"
"Red & White 'Til the End"
"No Clause. Just Class."
Even the chants changed. Now, alongside the old favorites, new songs emerged from the stands.
"He came from the stands, he plays with pride,
Francesco Lee, our North Bank guide!"
It was rare, almost surreal—the sense of unity between the fans and the club, between the terraces and the pitch. For the first time in a long while, it didn't feel like Arsenal were just holding on. It felt like they were building something.
And then came West Brom.
A sunny afternoon at the Emirates. The atmosphere was electric even before kickoff. The fans didn't need reminding of what was at stake—not just points, but momentum, belief, a title charge. They were four points clear of Chelsea. Every match mattered. But this one had a different tone. There was celebration in the air. A celebration of identity, of belonging.
The game started with a roar and never slowed down.
Theo Walcott, bursting with energy, opened the scoring in the 10th minute, slotting home after a slick one-two with Özil. The second came ten minutes later—a vintage Jack Wilshere goal, weaving through the midfield and unleashing a left-footed rocket into the top corner. The Emirates erupted. Jack turned to the crowd, thumped his chest, and pointed to Francesco on the other side of the pitch.
In the 34th minute, it was Francesco's turn. Özil, again the architect, slipped a perfectly timed ball behind the defense. Francesco darted in, took a touch to steady, and placed it past the keeper with the composure of a veteran. He didn't celebrate with theatrics. He simply raised both arms and looked to the sky, letting the moment wash over him as the fans chanted his name.
West Brom clawed one back before halftime through Gareth McAuley—a scrappy header from a corner—but it did little to shift the momentum.
In the second half, Walcott took over completely. He added his second with a curling finish from the edge of the box and completed his hat trick in the 82nd minute, tapping in from close range after a blistering counterattack led by Sánchez.
5–1. Statement made.
The players left the pitch to a standing ovation, but all eyes were already on the next fixture—Swansea City. And it wouldn't be so easy.
Six days later, the Emirates had a different vibe—tenser, tighter. Swansea came to frustrate, to defend in numbers, to suffocate the rhythm that Arsenal loved to play with. And they nearly succeeded.
For seventy minutes, it was a frustrating affair. Arsenal dominated possession, but Swansea's defensive shape was perfect, with Ashley Williams marshalling the backline like a general.
Then, in the 73rd minute, a moment of magic.
Francesco picked up the ball just inside the final third. He glanced once, twice, and surged forward, skipping past a tired tackle, linking up with Cazorla, and slipping between two defenders before calmly side-footing the ball past the keeper.
1–0. Relief poured through the Emirates like rain on a parched field.
But Swansea weren't done. As stoppage time ticked in, they won a corner. Gylfi Sigurðsson whipped it in, and Bafétimbi Gomis—towering and aggressive—rose above the pack and thundered a header into the net.
1–1.
A gut punch.
Francesco dropped to his knees at the final whistle, head bowed. It wasn't a loss, but it felt like one. Two points dropped. The title race had just become tighter.
Especially with Chelsea winning both of their matches—first a hard-fought 2–1 victory over Liverpool at Anfield, then a convincing 3–1 performance against Sunderland at Stamford Bridge. Hazard and Diego Costa were in form. Mourinho, smug and calculating, gave post-match interviews with that familiar glint in his eye.
Two points now separated Arsenal and Chelsea. The difference between glory and heartbreak was a threadbare line.
And the final matchday? It couldn't be more dramatic.
Arsenal, away at Old Trafford, against a resurgent Manchester United still fighting for Champions League qualification. The Theatre of Dreams, echoing with history, was set to be a battlefield.
Chelsea? At home against West Brom. On paper, easier. But football doesn't always follow the script.
At Colney, tension blended with focus. Training sessions grew sharper, more intense. Francesco stayed late every day, working on finishing, movement, set pieces. Not because anyone told him to—but because he wanted to. He wasn't just playing for a title. He was playing to fulfill the promise he'd made: to lead.
Wenger, ever composed, addressed the team ahead of the trip to Manchester.
"We've come too far to stop now. No one believed we'd be here—not in August, not in January. But we are. Because of all of you. Because you've played as a team. And because we have players who believe in this club."
He looked directly at Francesco. "Some of them have only just begun."
The room nodded in silent agreement.
All across North London, fans circled the final date on the calendar: Manchester United vs. Arsenal. If Arsenal won or drew, they were champions. If Chelsea won and Arsenal lost, the trophy would go to Stamford Bridge.
It was set up for a finale that would be remembered for years.
For Arsenal, this was the closest they'd come in over a decade. Eleven long years had passed since the club last lifted the Premier League trophy—since that immortal Invincibles side danced through the season unbeaten, their legacy etched into football history. Now, after years of heartbreak, near misses, and watching rivals celebrate, the Gunners stood on the brink once more. One game. Ninety minutes. A single point away from glory.
The football world knew the stakes. And they couldn't stop talking about it.
From Sky Sports to Match of the Day, from back pages to primetime panels, the narrative was everywhere: Manchester United will do everything to stop Arsenal from winning the league at Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams had hosted countless dramatic finales over the years, but this one—this felt personal. For United, it wasn't just about pride. They were still in a dogfight for Champions League qualification. But even more than that, they couldn't stomach watching Arsenal crown themselves champions on their sacred turf.
The media fed the fire. Clips of Roy Keane clashing with Patrick Vieira, of Solskjær sliding tackles and Ruud van Nistelrooy hitting the bar, played on loop. The history, the rivalry—it all surged back to the surface.
On one side: Arsenal. Led by Arsène Wenger, the professor turned general, who had endured years of criticism and stayed loyal to the project. His faith now stood on the verge of vindication. On the other: Louis van Gaal's Manchester United, a team in transition but still dangerous, still proud, still burning with the desire to ruin Arsenal's dream.
Back at London Colney, Arsenal's training ground, there was no escaping the buzz. Reporters lingered outside the gates, fans left banners on the fences, and helicopters occasionally hovered overhead. Inside, though, the mood was razor-sharp. Focused. Wenger had made one thing clear: ignore the noise. Win the title on your own terms.
Training that week was different. Tighter. Every pass was scrutinized, every drill executed at full intensity. You could see it in the players' eyes—they weren't just preparing for a match. They were preparing to become legends.
Francesco Lee, as ever, was at the center of it all.
He stayed behind after every session. Practicing free kicks with Cazorla. Drilling runs with Mertesacker and Bellerín. Shooting rep after rep with the goalkeeping coaches, fine-tuning that deadly first-time finish. But more than his technical work, it was his demeanor that stood out. Calm, yet hungry. Determined, yet composed. He didn't need to talk much. His actions said it all.
"You know what makes a player great?" Wenger said one afternoon, watching Francesco from the sidelines. "The ones who work like they have everything to prove—even after they've proven everything."
In the dressing room, a quiet fire burned. Sánchez, a relentless force of nature. Cazorla, smiling but sharp. Koscielny and Monreal, calm pillars in the backline. Coquelin, aggressive in training as ever, crashing into tackles like it was the final. Giroud, Walcott, Ramsey—all driven by the same purpose: to erase the narrative that Arsenal always fell short.
"We want to be remembered as winners," Jack Wilshere told the team, voice steady. "Not nearly-men. Not runners-up. Winners."
By the time the squad boarded the coach to Manchester, you could feel the weight of history pressing down—but not in a way that crushed. It sharpened them. This wasn't a burden. It was a chance.
The morning of the match, the players awoke at their hotel in Manchester to find thousands of messages from fans—on social media, through letters delivered to the club, even posters on the windows outside. Francesco scrolled through a message from a fan named Eli, who wrote, "I was eight when we last won the league. I'm nineteen now. I've never seen us do it as an adult. Make it happen, lads."
The sun was out. A rare gift in Manchester. And as the Arsenal team bus approached Old Trafford, police escorts and all, it was met with a hostile wall of red. United fans booed, chanted, hurled jeers. But inside the bus, no one flinched. Francesco stared straight ahead, earbuds in, hoodie up, eyes burning with the fire of a kid who grew up watching Thierry Henry glide across this very pitch.
Then the team bus stopped.
Security quickly moved into position as the doors hissed open, revealing a sea of red and white beyond the barricades. Arsenal fans had made the pilgrimage—some from London, others from even further. Dozens stood outside Old Trafford, defiant in enemy territory, waving scarves, holding signs, singing chants that echoed through the Manchester air.
As the players stepped down one by one—Walcott, Cazorla, Mertesacker, Özil—the fans erupted. But when Francesco Lee appeared, hoodie still up, headphones tucked into his ears, the crowd surged louder. Some shouted his name. Others just reached forward, hoping for a glance, a nod, a moment of connection with the young star whose goals had brought them here.
Francesco gave a small wave, a quiet acknowledgment, then walked forward with the rest of the team through the tunnel beneath the stands and into the bowels of the Theatre of Dreams.
Inside the stadium, the mood was different. The walls were plastered with United's legacy—photos of titles, trophies, club legends. A reminder of what Arsenal were chasing… and what Manchester United didn't want them to have.
The dressing room was cool, quiet at first. Players dropped their bags, found their spots, and began changing into training kits. The usual banter was absent today. This wasn't just another game.
One by one, they slipped into the navy blue training tops. The club crest over their hearts. "Fly Emirates" bold across the front. Out came the boots, the ankle tape, the shin guards. Francesco tied the laces of his custom boots—white with red trim, the number 35 stitched on the side. A nod to the number he wore, and a reminder of how far he'd come in such a short time.
"Alright, lads," came the familiar voice of assistant manager Steve Bould. "Let's get moving."
The team made their way down the corridor, past press officers and security, until the tunnel opened up into the pitch.
Old Trafford.
It was a different beast when you were on the field. The towering stands. The sprawling grass. The weight of history hanging in the air.
Francesco took a deep breath, letting the enormity of it settle into his lungs, then joined his teammates for the warm-up.
For forty-five minutes, they moved like machines. Pass-and-move drills. Sprints. Shooting practice. Defensive shape. A blur of motion, whistles, claps. Sánchez rifled volleys at Ospina. Özil floated passes into tight windows. Mertesacker barked instructions. Francesco tested his sprints against Bellerín and then peeled off to practice his finishing again—right foot, left foot, inside the box, outside. Every touch mattered.
The United fans booed from the stands as the Arsenal players ran through their drills, but the Gunners barely noticed. Their minds were elsewhere. On the game. On history.
Finally, with the clock ticking down, the whistle blew. Warm-up done. They jogged back down the tunnel, sweat on their brows, muscles warm, minds focused.
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere was thicker now. More intense. The players peeled off their training tops and changed into their match kits. The iconic red shirt. White sleeves. Names and numbers bold on their backs. Francesco pulled on his shirt, his hands briefly brushing the crest. He tucked it in, adjusted his socks, and looked around the room.
Then came Arsène Wenger.
He stood before them, composed, dressed sharply in his suit and red tie, a quiet authority in his stance. His eyes scanned the room. He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
"This is our moment," Wenger began, voice calm but powerful. "Not theirs. Ours."
The players leaned in.
"Eleven years ago, we stood on top of this league and made history. And we've waited—every one of you, every fan, every person at this club—for the chance to do it again. And now, it's here. Ninety minutes. That's all. You don't need to play perfect. You don't need to impress anyone. You just need to be yourselves."
He paused, walking slowly across the room.
"Today, we use the 4-2-3-1," he continued. "Ospina in goal. Monreal at left back. Koscielny and Mertesacker in the center. Bellerín at right back."
The defenders nodded, tightening their boots, locking in.
"Coquelin and Cazorla—double pivot. Keep it tight. Win the second balls. Protect the back line."
Cazorla looked over at Coquelin and gave a firm nod. They'd been through enough battles together to know what that meant.
"Özil in the middle. Pull the strings. Find the space. You know what to do."
Mesut simply adjusted his armband and stared ahead, laser-focused.
"Alexis on the left wing. Francesco on the right."
Francesco looked up.
"I want you two to make them suffer. Run at them. Break them down. Every time you get the ball, make them question themselves."
Wenger then turned to Giroud.
"Olivier. Lead the line. Be strong. Hold the ball. Bring the others into play. When the moment comes—finish it."
He looked around the room one final time.
"The bench: Szczęsny, Gabriel, Ramsey, Flamini, Wilshere, Rosický, Walcott. Be ready. We may need every single one of you."
The players nodded. Some cracked knuckles. Some closed their eyes. Mertesacker, the captain, rose and clapped his hands once.
Then Wenger added, "Van Gaal's going 4-1-4-1. De Gea in goal. Rojo, Jones, Smalling, Valencia across the back. Blind holding. Herrera and Fellaini ahead of him. Young on the left. Mata on the right. Falcao up top."
The room stiffened. United had power and pace. They were dangerous—especially at home.
"But remember this," Wenger said, his voice tightening. "They're not playing to win the title. You are."
The silence after that was deafening. The gravity of those words sank in.
Francesco sat, staring at his boots for a second. Then he stood, rolled his neck, and pulled his shirt down over his shorts. One by one, the rest of the team followed. The music in the dressing room stopped. All that was left was the hum of the stadium above them.
Mertesacker stood by the door. He turned and gave one last look at his teammates.
"Let's write our names into Arsenal history."
And with that, the team began to file out. Francesco was somewhere in the middle of the line—calm, locked in, earbuds now tucked away, focus sharp.
________________________________________________
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