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And somewhere, in the back of the tunnel, the cameras flashed and the world buzzed, as he look at Francesco who under the interview of UEFA official, then were given MOTM award as he score 2 goal and 1 assist. Arsène Wenger allowed himself one long exhale — the look of a man who knew, perhaps more than anyone, what this night truly meant.
2 November 2015, the air at Colney was different now. Crisp autumn mornings still clung to the training pitches with the same icy dew, but the mood? That had shifted. You could feel it in the way the lads moved between drills, in the subtle bounce of footsteps, the extra lift in every laugh. Arsenal weren't just in form — they were riding something bigger. Something rarer. Momentum, yes. But also belief.
Francesco stood by the sideline after finishing his reps, towel slung around his neck, watching the younger lads in the shooting drill. His calves still ached from the Swansea match, but it was a good kind of ache — the kind earned by chasing and pressing and scoring. Özil wandered over beside him, eyes squinting under the low sun.
"You seen the headlines?" Mesut asked, barely looking up as he kicked at a stray cone.
Francesco raised a brow. "Which ones? There've been quite a few lately."
Mesut grinned. "The Guardian called us 'the most dangerous side in Europe right now.'"
Francesco chuckled softly. "About time they noticed."
He wasn't wrong. In the space of just over 2 week, Arsenal had thundered their name across England and Europe. First, they dismantled Bayern Munich — that unforgettable 4–0 at the Emirates that already felt like a folk tale in the making. Then came Everton. A match that could've been a trap, a letdown after the emotional high. But no. Arsenal, sharp and ruthless, had dismantled them 3–1.
Francesco had struck again in that match, thanks to Özil's vision — a through ball threaded with such precision it might as well have been GPS-guided. The Emirates roared as Francesco side-footed it past Tim Howard with typical coolness. Koscielny added another with one of those flying headers off a Cazorla corner — he always seemed to find a way to fling his body into the net when needed. Then came Giroud, brought on for Francesco with 20 to play, and within minutes he was nodding home a bullet header, fed by a teasing Oxlade-Chamberlain cross.
That night, under the Emirates lights again, the crowd sang. Not just chants — songs of belief. Of defiance. They knew something was brewing.
Then came Sheffield Wednesday.
That midweek League Cup trip up north, played at a damp, humming Hillsborough. The air was different there — heavy, skeptical. And Arsenal, under Wenger's rotation plan, had changed too. No Francesco. No Özil. No Alexis or Cech. The squad was made of youth, of promise, of legs in need of rhythm. But it didn't work.
They were punished. Three goals without reply. Knocked out before they could blink. The media pounced — "Arsenal's soft underbelly exposed," "Wenger's gamble backfires" — the usual vultures circling.
But the reaction within the squad? Measured. Controlled. There was no panic. They knew that match didn't define them — not when the core group had barely touched the pitch. Wenger had said it himself in the dressing room post-match, voice low but steady: "This one we learn from. The war is not the League Cup."
And then came Swansea.
Liberty Stadium, the last day of October. Windy. Grey. The kind of day where mistakes were easy and patience hard. But Arsenal were past that now. They didn't need ideal conditions.
Francesco scored again — because of course he did. Özil found him with another gorgeous slide-rule pass after baiting the defenders with that signature drift toward the left. Francesco cut in, let the ball roll across his body, then swept it past Fabianski with one touch. Koscielny added the second — another scrappy set-piece goal that started with a Cazorla corner and ended with the Frenchman poking in after a rebound chaos. Giroud, yet again, sealed it. Replacing Francesco midway through the second half, he rose like a lighthouse in a storm to nod home Alexis Sánchez's whipped cross. 3–0. Dominant. Efficient. Cold-blooded.
As the bus rolled back toward London that night, no one celebrated like it was something extraordinary. It wasn't anymore. It was expected. That was the scariest part for the rest of the league. Arsenal were no longer surprising anyone. They were asserting themselves.
Back at Colney now, Wenger was gathering the players into the video room. They will going to the Allianz Arena tomorrow. And that, in itself, was enough to command attention.
Wenger stood in front of the monitor, hands in pockets, a remote in one hand.
"We are playing like champions," he said simply, scanning the room. "But the difference between champions and nearly-men is what happens after praise."
He clicked. A slow-motion clip of the Swansea match appeared — Francesco's goal.
"I do not want you to enjoy the goal again," Wenger said, voice low but firm. "I want you to remember why it worked. Movement. Timing. Trust."
The room was quiet. Focused.
He clicked again — Koscielny's goal.
"Look here — Ramsey's decoy run at the back post. It frees Laurent. We train these things for a reason."
Another click — Giroud's header.
"This — this is instinct. But it is also drilled. If Alexis crosses near post, Olivier is there. If it's far post, the run changes."
Francesco leaned back, watching it all. Not detached, not disinterested — just calmly absorbing. He'd been in England long enough now to feel it deep in his chest — the rhythm of the season, the moments when a campaign truly starts to take shape. This was one of them. The chaos of September was behind them. The real test — November, December, the grueling grind — was coming.
After the meeting, he wandered out onto the pitch again with Giroud, both taking turns volleying balls fed by a youth keeper. Olivier was grinning, despite the cold wind that swept through Colney.
"Scoring from your crosses is becoming a habit," he said between hits.
Francesco smirked. "Maybe I'll start charging per assist."
Giroud laughed, hammered another volley past the keeper, then turned. "You really feel it, don't you? This team."
Francesco paused. Looked around — the distant red and white buildings of the training ground, the trimmed pitch, the empty stands of the reserve field beyond.
"I do," he said. "It's starting to feel like something real. Something special."
Giroud nodded, serious now. "Let's make it last."
That was the energy coursing through the Arsenal squad as the calendar turned to November. A quiet confidence. Not the brash, headline-chasing kind — but the kind that grew from consistency, from results, from shared moments of triumph and learning. Francesco had become the face of it — scoring in nearly every game, linking with Özil like they'd grown up playing in the same cobblestone streets.
The press couldn't get enough. "Arsenal's Blade" was one headline. "From the Emirates With Love," another, referencing his increasingly beloved status among fans and the way he celebrated each goal with clenched fists and a fierce roar. His interviews were brief, modest, always redirecting praise toward the team.
Wenger managed him carefully. Minutes rotated. He rested Francesco in the League Cup precisely to keep him fresh for what mattered. And now, as the team prepared for the fourth round of Champions League againts Bayern Munich at Allianz Arena on 4 November, the manager knew exactly what he had — a leader in the making.
Wenger paused with the remote in his hand, the last still frame of Giroud's header frozen on the screen behind him. The players remained quiet, absorbing everything — the movement, the precision, the patterns they had drilled into muscle memory.
Then he turned to them fully, his voice shifting slightly. Lower. Heavier.
"You played like champions last time," he said, "but now… now you must tread carefully."
The words hung in the air.
"Bayern will come for you," he continued, pacing a step forward. "Do not think they have forgotten. Not them. Not in their home."
There was a subtle movement in the room. Not fear — but awareness. That flicker of adrenaline, of tension beginning to settle behind the eyes. Francesco's jaw tightened slightly as he watched Wenger, arms now crossed over his chest.
"They will try to break you early. To smother. To punish. They will remember every goal you scored at the Emirates. Every cheer. Every headline. Every laugh in the tunnel." His eyes scanned the room — Özil, Koscielny, Alexis, Bellerín, Cazorla, even the younger lads at the back like Chambers and Iwobi, called in to observe.
"They are proud. German. Disciplined. But they are also emotional, when slighted. And you embarrassed them. Four goals. Clean sheet. At the Emirates. That does not happen to Bayern Munich. Not under Guardiola."
Silence again.
Then, quietly: "So I want you sharp. I want you humble. And I want you ready to suffer."
No one looked away.
Wenger walked to the corner of the screen and clicked it off. The room dimmed without the blue light, and the morning sun that filtered through the blinds seemed sharper now.
"We meet here tomorrow at eleven," he said. "Be early, not late. The coach leaves for Heathrow at half past. Munich awaits."
He nodded once, then left the room without another word.
The next morning, London was wrapped in that foggy greyness particular to November — the kind that made car headlights look like lighthouse beams on quiet roads. At Colney, the players filed in with overnight bags slung over shoulders, many still sipping coffee from takeaway cups. Conversation buzzed softly, muted by the weight of what lay ahead.
Francesco arrived with his usual calm, a navy coat over his Arsenal tracksuit, headphones around his neck, duffel in hand. He greeted Steve Bould at the front doors, clapped hands with Debuchy, nodded to Mertesacker, who was already gathering the defenders for their seat assignments on the bus.
Francesco dropped his bag by the gear crate and made his way to Özil, who was finishing a protein shake and scrolling through his phone.
"You see Neuer's interview?" Mesut asked, glancing up.
"No," Francesco replied, pulling up a chair.
"He said we 'got lucky' last time. That they dominated, and the result flattered us."
Francesco gave a dry smile. "They say that every time they lose."
Mesut grinned. "True."
By 11:30, the coach was pulling out of Colney. Wenger sat near the front, reading a folder of scouting reports. The players filed in behind, with Cech and Mertesacker up front, Francesco and Özil a few rows back, Alexis by the window watching the scenery blur by.
The journey to Heathrow was swift, and by early afternoon the team was boarding a chartered flight — clean, quiet, business-class seating throughout. Wenger didn't speak much in the air. He let the players rest. But you could see him thinking. Always thinking.
Francesco sat by the window, staring out at the cloud cover. He thought of that night at the Emirates. Of the way the crowd surged as he scored. Of Neuer frozen mid-dive. Of Boateng, hands on hips. It had felt like magic then.
But now? Now it had to be earned all over again.
Munich greeted them with a crispness that bit through jackets. The airport was quiet, VIP services swift, and within an hour they were on another coach, this one emblazoned with the Arsenal crest, moving through orderly Bavarian streets toward the hotel.
Fans had gathered. Not many — but enough. Enough to remind them where they were.
By the time they reached the hotel, evening had fallen. The team dinner was brief — pasta, fish, water, always water — and then a short tactical meeting in the conference suite, with Wenger pointing out zones of vulnerability behind Lahm and Alaba when they pressed high.
"We do not match them man for man," he said. "We beat them by breaking their shape. Patience. Then precision."
Afterwards, the players filtered back to their rooms. Francesco roomed alone. He liked the quiet, the space. He unpacked slowly, then sat by the window, looking out over the Munich skyline. Lights shimmered in the glass of the high-rises, and the dark outlines of the Alps could be seen faintly in the distance.
His phone buzzed.
Mendes.
He hesitated, then answered.
"Hey."
"Big one tomorrow," Jorge's voice came smooth and low, almost fatherly.
"I know."
"I just wanted to say — the board is watching. Not in a pressure way. In a… proud way."
Francesco didn't respond immediately. He wasn't thinking of the board. He was thinking of Müller, Lewandowski, Costa, Thiago, Alonso. Of Boateng's recovery pace. Of Neuer's ridiculous wingspan.
Mendes sensed the silence. "You ready?"
Francesco finally answered. "More than I've ever been."
The next morning dawned pale and cold, a thin veil of frost lining the windows of the hotel rooms overlooking Munich. The city was already stirring — trams gliding along rails, joggers wrapped in windbreakers pacing past cafés, early commuters huddled in scarves. But for the Arsenal players, the day moved differently. Time didn't feel real on match days — especially not on Champions League nights like this. There was a strange calm, a stillness, just before the roar.
Francesco was one of the first to reach the hotel restaurant. He wore a black Arsenal hoodie over his training shirt, headphones draped loosely around his neck, his hair still damp from the shower. He moved like someone conserving energy — slow, deliberate steps, a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, fruit. Nothing heavy. Not today.
Soon after, more trickled in. Özil sat across from him, nodding silently, focused on a bowl of oats. Alexis arrived, his usual upbeat rhythm somewhat tempered, as if even he could feel the tension coiling through the day. Giroud joined, greeted everyone with a low, "Morning," then asked the waiter for more black coffee.
They didn't speak much. Not yet. Just quiet sips, steady bites. You could hear the clink of cutlery, the occasional shuffle of shoes on the polished floor. It wasn't nerves exactly. More like minds running long simulations — what if Neuer steps out? What if Lahm overlaps? What if they crowd the pivot?
At 9:30 sharp, a voice came down the hallway.
"Boys, let's go. Meeting room."
It was Bould, standing at the edge of the restaurant doorway, gesturing toward the corridor.
Francesco finished his coffee in two gulps, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and rose with the rest.
The hotel meeting room had been transformed overnight — projectors, magnets on whiteboards, Bayern's crest taped across tactical maps. There were notepads, water bottles, and a screen already buzzing to life with paused footage from Bayern's last league match. The players filed in slowly, some stretching shoulders, others with arms folded, eyes narrowed.
Wenger stood near the front, arms behind his back, a clicker in one hand.
"Sit down, please. Let's begin."
The door shut softly behind them.
"Today we go back into the fire," he said, his voice calm, deliberate. "They will not give you the luxury of time. Bayern do not let you breathe at home. Not under Pep."
He gestured to the screen.
"This is how they will press."
The footage rolled — Bayern against Köln, a high line choking space, Lewandowski cutting passing lanes, Thiago pressing the six, Douglas Costa latching onto loose touches like a predator.
"See here," Wenger pointed, pausing the screen. "Lahm tucks in. Alaba flies forward. It creates a box around your midfield. But it also creates… what?"
"Space behind," said Cazorla softly from the second row.
Wenger nodded.
"Exactly. If — and only if — you beat the first press."
He clicked again. The screen showed Arsenal's 4–0 win. Chamberlain breaking free. Özil threading the needle. Francesco running in behind.
"That space does not stay open long. You must move immediately. No hesitation. Beat their first line, and you have six seconds to strike. If not? You're back under the water."
Francesco watched himself on the replay, ghosting past Alonso, then sprinting beyond Boateng.
"We can do this," Wenger continued. "But not alone. Not as individuals. This is a game of synchronisation. Of trust."
He turned to the whiteboard. The starting XI was there — Cech; Monreal, Van Dijk, Koscielny, Bellerín; Kanté, Cazorla; Alexis, Özil, Oxlade-Chamberlain; Francesco.
"They will expect you to sit deep and absorb. But we will surprise them."
He picked up a marker, drawing quickly.
"Kanté — you stay close to Thiago. Cut his pulse. Don't let him dictate."
Kanté nodded.
"Santi — we'll need you calm, composed. Take that first touch under pressure and release. Fast. Accurate."
Cazorla murmured, "Understood."
"Mesut — if Lahm pushes high, you drift. Find the shadow space between Alonso and Boateng. Francesco will go. You must find him."
Özil didn't answer, just lifted his chin.
"Ox — your job tonight is vital. You must give us width. Pull Alaba wide. Drag him out. When you get the chance — run at him. Don't hesitate. You can beat him."
The Ox looked over at Alexis, who grinned faintly in approval.
Wenger's eyes shifted to the back.
"Laurent. Virgil. You will be tested in every way. Lewandowski is clever. His movement is elite. And Müller — he will ghost in behind when you least expect. No ball watching."
Koscielny's jaw flexed. Van Dijk gave a short, cool nod.
"And Francesco," Wenger said at last, voice tightening just slightly. "You will be hunted. Boateng remembers. Neuer remembers. They will look for revenge."
Francesco sat forward.
"Good," he said simply.
A few chuckles broke the tension, but Wenger didn't smile.
"You are the tip of the spear. But the spear means nothing without the rest of the blade."
He looked at them all.
"You know what you are. What we are. Tonight, we prove it again."
He clicked the projector off.
The room remained silent for a few seconds, the only sound that of Wenger setting down the clicker.
"Rest now," he said. "We meet again at three. Matchday walk. Light activation. Then we ride."
The players filed out again, slower this time. No buzzing talk. No laughter. Just that collective hum of readiness growing louder under the surface.
Back in his room, Francesco paced.
He tried to nap, but his thoughts bounced like marbles in a tin can. He thought of the warm-ups. Of the anthem. Of Neuer again — that long, confident stride of his. Of how Guardiola always tried to control everything, to smother variables with possession and angles and overloads. But he also thought of the Emirates. Of the crowd, the noise, the way everything had clicked.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 15
Goal: 24
Assist: 3
MOTM: 2
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9