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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.
As the players lined up in the narrow tunnel, shoulder to shoulder, studs tapping against concrete, hearts pounding in anticipation, the roar of Old Trafford seeped through the walls like thunder on the horizon. The tension was electric. Francesco Lee stood in his spot halfway down the line, eyes forward, expression unreadable, but inside, his heart was doing somersaults.
Outside, the clash of chants had already begun.
"UNITED! UNITED! UNITED!"
The home fans were loud, relentless, drowning the stadium in their defiance. Flags waved, scarves were held high, and a wall of red surged with energy. But in the corner of the ground, near the away end, Arsenal fans stood firm. They were fewer in number, but not in spirit. They sang louder, not to overpower, but to prove they belonged.
"We love you Arsenal, we do!"
Their voices floated defiantly through enemy territory. Some fans held up Francesco's name on homemade banners—LEE 35—while others bounced and shouted, hoping to be heard. Hoping their energy would make the difference.
Francesco caught a glimpse of it all on the big screen inside the tunnel. The stadium's live feed was cycling through scenes from the crowd, shots of the players lined up, the tension building. Then, the camera panned to the VIP box.
There they were.
Leah Williamson, wearing his Arsenal shirt under a stylish coat, leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes scanned the pitch and the tunnel screen, searching for him. Beside her sat his parents—Sarah and Mike—arms crossed, nervous smiles on their faces. Mike gave a reassuring nod to no one in particular, like a silent vote of confidence in his son. Sarah clutched a small Arsenal flag, her fingers fidgeting, her eyes glassy with emotion. Francesco felt a wave of warmth spread through him. They were here. They had his back.
A nudge on his shoulder brought him back—Per Mertesacker, giving a brief nod as if to say, We ready?
Francesco nodded once.
Then the referee's voice echoed in the tunnel: "Let's go, gentlemen."
The teams stepped forward. Boots clunked against the tunnel floor as the doors swung open and the Theatre of Dreams revealed itself in full.
The sound was overwhelming. The eruption of noise as both teams emerged onto the pitch was a physical force. United fans roared. Arsenal fans raised their voices in resistance. The stadium announcer bellowed into the mic:
"Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome Arsenal Football Club… and Manchester United!"
Francesco squinted against the light, scanning the stands. The noise was a blur, the faces a mosaic, but his eyes caught the VIP box again. Leah was standing now, clapping furiously. Sarah had tears in her eyes. Mike gave him a thumbs up. Francesco gave the smallest of nods in their direction before stepping into line with the team.
As tradition dictated, they shook hands with the referees and opponents. Falcao. Mata. Fellaini. Herrera. Each handshake a silent agreement: ninety minutes, leave everything on the pitch.
Then came the final lineup in the center circle. Cameras panned across the players' faces for the world broadcast. Francesco looked straight ahead, stone-faced, jaw tight, but his heart beat with Arsenal's crest.
The camera then cut to the legends watching from the stands.
For Arsenal, it was royalty. Thierry Henry. Dennis Bergkamp. Patrick Vieira. Robert Pires. Freddie Ljungberg. Tony Adams. All seated together, watching like proud older brothers. Henry leaned in to say something to Vieira, gesturing toward Francesco with a smirk.
Then, across the way, the Manchester United royalty. Ryan Giggs. Paul Scholes. Rio Ferdinand. Gary Neville. Roy Keane. Eric Cantona. And, towering among them all, Sir Alex Ferguson, arms folded, expression unreadable. The camera lingered on him, a living symbol of the dynasty Arsenal were trying to dethrone, even a decade later.
It was all so heavy. The past, the present, and the future colliding under the bright lights of Old Trafford.
The whistle blew for kickoff.
Francesco jogged into position on the right wing. He glanced left—Alexis was bouncing on his toes. Straight ahead—Giroud flexed his shoulders, ready for battle. Behind—Özil, cool and calm, ready to conduct. To his right, Bellerín gave him a quick fist bump.
"You ready?" the young fullback asked.
Francesco cracked a small grin. "Born ready."
Then the whistle blew again. Game on.
Manchester United kicked off, pushing the ball back to Blind, who immediately tried to feed it out wide to Young. But Bellerín was there—sharp and aggressive—cutting it off and starting a quick break.
Francesco darted forward into space, Özil spotted the run, and within seconds, Francesco had the ball at his feet.
The crowd roared as he accelerated down the right flank. Rojo stepped in to challenge, but Francesco feinted inside, then pushed the ball down the line with his left foot and surged past him. The Arsenal end exploded.
He crossed low into the box—Giroud met it with a volley—blocked by Smalling.
But that was the warning shot.
Arsenal weren't here to soak pressure. They were here to win.
The game settled into a rhythm—both teams testing, probing. United's midfield pressed high. Fellaini and Herrera tried to bully Cazorla and Coquelin, but the two Spaniards held firm. Özil found pockets, drifting between lines. Sánchez and Francesco alternated sides, trying to pull defenders out of position.
Francesco was relentless.
In the 6th minute, he cut inside from the right, dragging Jones and Rojo with him, and unleashed a curling shot from 25 yards—De Gea had to stretch to palm it over the bar.
The Arsenal fans behind the goal were going wild. "Francesco Lee! Francesco Lee! He's one of our own!" they sang, voice cracking through the wall of United noise.
United responded. Falcao came close with a header off a cross from Valencia. Ospina punched it clear, and Mertesacker swept it away. The game was open, fast, furious.
By the 15th minute, the tackles were flying. Coquelin earned a yellow for a crunching slide on Mata. Herrera clattered into Özil. Sánchez exchanged words with Smalling after a late challenge. The referee had to pull players aside. It was that kind of match.
Francesco stayed focused. Every touch mattered. Every sprint counted. He tracked back when Bellerín needed cover. He pressed Blind when he lingered on the ball. He stayed alive between the lines, waiting for that one moment.
The game continued with both sides determined to strike first, each probing, feinting, shifting shape like two heavyweight fighters circling in a title bout. United weren't sitting back. Far from it. They came in waves—Valencia overlapping down the right, Herrera and Mata pushing into half-spaces, while Falcao lurked in the box like a predator waiting for a loose ball.
But Arsenal were ready. They weren't just defending—they were matching United blow for blow.
In the 18th minute, a sharp one-two between Mata and Young sent the ball toward the edge of the box. Mata shaped to shoot, but Koscielny was there—sliding in with perfect timing, sending the ball out for a corner. The United crowd roared in anticipation, their voices swelling as Mata jogged over to take it.
The corner curled in with menace. Fellaini, all elbows and ambition, rose above everyone. He connected cleanly—and for a split second, time froze—but Ospina leapt to his right and punched it away, strong wrists absorbing the impact. The rebound fell to Blind, who volleyed from the edge of the area—this time, blocked by Koscielny's thigh, the ball bouncing awkwardly out toward touch.
Francesco jogged back into position, breath coming hard, sweat already pouring, but there was fire in his eyes. He glanced at the clock. 20 minutes gone. Still goalless. But this was anything but dull.
Then came Arsenal's turn to press.
A heavy touch from Rojo allowed Bellerín to pounce, nicking the ball and setting off a quick counter. He found Coquelin, who sprayed it wide to Sánchez. Francesco was already moving, sprinting inside from the right. Alexis cut in on his right foot and sent a lofted ball over the top—perfectly weighted.
Francesco brought it down with a velvet touch on the run, one fluid motion. Rojo was left chasing shadows. With just De Gea to beat, Francesco opened up his body, shaping for the far post.
The away end held its breath.
He struck it clean.
But De Gea—world-class, magnetic—read it all the way. The Spaniard sprang to his left and pushed it around the post with his fingertips. An outrageous save.
Francesco threw his head back in frustration, hands on hips.
"Bloody hell," Bellerín muttered as he jogged over. "That was top corner."
Francesco nodded, lips pursed. "I thought I had him."
He jogged over for the corner, placing the ball down, giving himself a moment to breathe. His heart was pounding—not from nerves anymore, but from adrenaline. He could feel the tempo of the match inside his bloodstream, like a current pulling him along.
The corner came to nothing—cleared by Smalling—but it was a signal. Arsenal were dangerous. They weren't just surviving at Old Trafford. They were threatening to conquer.
By the 30th minute, the match had turned into a tactical chess game. Wenger and Van Gaal stood on opposite touchlines like rival generals, issuing instructions, adjusting their troops.
Özil was drifting everywhere now—left, right, central—pulling strings. His connection with Francesco was telepathic. In the 33rd minute, Özil slipped a disguised ball between Jones and Rojo that only Francesco anticipated. He latched onto it, turned sharply, and fired a low shot toward the near post—but again, De Gea was equal to it.
The Spaniard was putting on a masterclass.
Not to be outdone, Ospina was just as sharp.
In the 36th minute, Valencia sent in a cross from deep that fell to Falcao, who volleyed from ten yards out. The strike was clean, powerful, destined for the bottom corner—but Ospina dropped low, arms like steel traps, and smothered it.
United fans groaned. Arsenal fans cheered like they'd scored.
Still 0–0.
The match had no right to be goalless. It was soaked in quality, intensity, and sweat. But the goalkeepers were building walls.
By the 40th minute, players were visibly tiring. Not in effort, but in edge. The sharpness of the early minutes gave way to caution. Mistakes at this level meant consequences.
That's when Francesco felt a pang in his left thigh. Not pain—just tightness. He shook it off, bouncing on his toes, stretching when the ball was on the other end of the pitch. Mertesacker noticed and gave him a look.
"You good?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Just a tweak. I'm fine."
Per didn't argue. He trusted the kid. Francesco had earned that. At 16, he played with the poise of a man ten years older. He belonged here.
A switch of play from Cazorla found Sánchez in space on the left. He danced past Valencia and whipped in a curling ball toward the far post. Francesco ghosted in behind Rojo—timing perfect—and met it with a downward header.
Again, De Gea.
It was absurd at this point.
Then, in the 43rd minute, the temperature on the pitch finally boiled over.
Francesco had picked up the ball just inside United's half. There was a rhythm to him now, a cadence, like he was playing to music only he could hear. With each touch, the pitch seemed to widen for him, defenders parting like waves crashing against a rock.
He drifted past Herrera with a shoulder drop and quick burst, glided around Jones with a cheeky nutmeg that drew gasps from both sets of supporters, and then it happened—Blind, steaming with frustration, stepped in late and hard from behind.
It wasn't a clumsy challenge—it was deliberate. Blind had just been humiliated, nutmegged in front of 75,000 people and a global audience. Pride was wounded. Francesco didn't see it coming. His body twisted with the force of the tackle, legs swept out as his chest hit the turf.
He cried out—not in pain, but in sheer disbelief.
And immediately, it kicked off.
Bellerín was the first to reach Blind, shoving him hard in the chest. "What the hell is that?!"
Coquelin came flying in, chest-to-chest with Fellaini, who stepped in to defend his teammate. Koscielny and Rojo squared up. A tangle of bodies, arms pushing, shouting faces nose to nose. The referee came sprinting over, whistle blaring, arms out like a traffic cop trying to stop an oncoming train.
Francesco sat up, fists clenched, teeth gritted. He looked up at Blind, who didn't even offer a hand.
"Get up, kid," Blind muttered.
Francesco's jaw tightened. But before he could get up and say something he might regret, Per was there—calm but commanding. The BFG extended his hand, helped Francesco to his feet, and put an arm around him.
"Let your feet do the talking," he said quietly.
The ref handed out two yellow cards—one to Blind for the tackle, and one to Bellerín for his reaction. Could've been worse. Maybe should've been worse.
Wenger was fuming on the touchline, arms flailing. Van Gaal, expression unreadable, just stood with his hands in his coat pockets. But there was a shift in the energy of the match. The tension that had been simmering was now out in the open.
Francesco stretched out his leg a bit. The pain wasn't too bad. More shock than damage. But the fire was there now. Not just in his legs, but in his heart. He didn't want to beat United anymore. He wanted to bury them.
And then—just before halftime—he almost did.
In the 45+1st minute, Arsenal won a free-kick about 30 yards out, slightly to the right. Özil stood over it, eyeing the goal, but instead of shooting, he dinked it sideways to Francesco, who had peeled off from the wall.
Francesco took one touch and let fly with his left.
The ball curved wickedly through the air, dipping late—De Gea was beaten. Everyone thought it was in.
It smacked the post.
A metallic clang echoed through Old Trafford.
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.
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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