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In three days, it wouldn't just be about tactics. It wouldn't be about stats or headlines. It would be about desire and pride, and also writing his name into Arsenal's history.
Three days passed in a blur of final drills, video analysis, ice baths, and quiet moments of visualizing the game. Francesco had stuck to every routine, every instruction, with a level of discipline that would've made a veteran proud. He hadn't gone out, hadn't seen anyone apart from training staff and teammates. Every moment was geared toward this one: Matchday.
That morning, the air in London was brisk and heavy with anticipation, as if the city itself knew something big was coming.
Francesco zipped up his black Arsenal bomber jacket over a dark tee, grabbed his gym bag, and stepped into his blacked-out Honda Civic. The interior still smelled faintly of leather and lemon from yesterday's detail. He slid into the seat, fired the engine, and backed out from his apartment's underground lot. Music pulsed low from the stereo—something calm, lo-fi beats to steady his nerves. He wasn't in the mood for hype. Not yet. He needed clarity.
As he drove through North London, his eyes darted between the road and the looming outline of the Emirates Stadium off in the distance, partially obscured by buildings and morning fog. It wasn't time to go there yet. First stop: London Colney.
When he pulled into the training ground's car park, he could already see the team bus idling, sleek and polished, the Arsenal crest glinting on its sides. Some of the boys were milling about, some sitting on the steps of the bus, others leaning on their cars. The mood was quiet but buzzing. It wasn't nervous energy—it was something tighter, more internal. Everyone was locked in.
Francesco parked in his usual spot and stepped out. The chill kissed his cheeks as he threw his bag over his shoulder and made his way toward the group. Jack Wilshere gave him a quick nod. Ramsey clapped him on the back. Alexis grinned and said something in Spanish that made Cazorla chuckle.
"You sleep alright?" Ramsey asked as they stood next to the bus.
"Like a rock," Francesco replied. "Dreamed I scored a hat trick."
Ramsey smirked. "Premonition or pressure?"
Francesco shrugged. "Guess we'll find out."
Wenger emerged from the facility, wearing his long navy coat, clipboard in hand but face calm. His presence still had that magnetic pull—everyone naturally straightened up. Without saying a word, he motioned for them to start boarding.
Inside the bus, the usual spots were taken. Francesco slid into his seat near the middle, by the window. He popped in his earbuds and queued up a playlist that was half motivational speeches, half chilled beats.
The bus rolled out of Colney and onto the road. The ride to the Emirates wasn't long, but it felt suspended in time—like they were traveling not just across distance, but into something bigger. Francesco watched the world blur past the window: the houses, the shops, the glimpses of fans already walking in Arsenal jerseys.
Every now and then, he'd glance across the aisle. Özil had his eyes closed, probably visualizing spaces and passes only he could see. Alexis was tapping his leg, restless as always. Bellerín scrolled through his phone. Everyone had their own method. Francesco's was simple: breathe, trust the work, and remember why he was here.
As they neared the Emirates, the tension inside the bus thickened. Fans were already crowding the streets, waving scarves, holding signs, chanting. Francesco's heart beat a little faster. He'd played at the Emirates many times before, but not like this. Not against Chelsea. Not with a trophy in sight.
When the bus pulled into the underground entrance of the stadium, the security gates opened with a hiss, and they were guided through. Francesco stood and slung his bag over his shoulder, walking with the others into the bowels of the stadium.
The tunnel was quiet—eerily so—as Francesco and the rest of the squad filed in from the team bus. No cameras down here. No chants echoing off the stands yet. Just the low hum of electric lights, the squeak of trainers on concrete, and the occasional zip of a duffel bag being opened or closed. Everyone walked with a kind of mechanical rhythm, like they were on autopilot. But under the surface, hearts were pounding.
Francesco could feel the pulse in his neck as they stepped into the dressing room.
It was familiar and pristine, the red and white of Arsenal's home colours glowing from the benches and gear set out neatly at every player's spot. His shirt hung there like a promise: LEE 35.
But it wasn't match time yet. For now, it was all about the prep. Francesco slung his bag into his cubby and pulled off his jacket. The locker room was filled with the soft rustle of fabric, the dull thump of boots being lifted from kit bags, and the sharp hiss of zippers being pulled open.
He peeled off his track pants and hoodie, revealing the compression layer underneath, and quickly slid into his training kit—navy shorts, a fitted red top with gold trim, and the Arsenal badge sitting right over his heart. He tied his boots with swift, practiced motions, flexed his ankles, and did a couple of bounces on his toes.
Around him, the team was moving with the same sharp, deliberate energy. No banter. No light-hearted chirping. Not today.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it was the kind of silence forged in the fire of shared understanding. Everyone knew what this match meant. A win didn't just give them a lead—it gave them a grip on the title. It put pressure on Chelsea. It told the league Arsenal were not just contenders. But they here to win the damn league.
Wenger stepped in briefly, nodded once, and simply said, "fourty five minutes."
That was the cue.
The squad moved together toward the tunnel and then out onto the pitch for warmups. The moment they stepped out into the open air, the stadium, still only half-full, sent out a murmur of excitement. Even the early-arriving fans could feel the atmosphere brewing. The Emirates had a pulse now, and it was rising with every footstep.
The pitch was immaculate, a glowing emerald under the afternoon sun. Francesco inhaled deeply, the grass-scented air sharp and clear in his lungs. He jogged slowly, getting his body loose. The trainers and coaching staff were already organizing the cones, setting up passing triangles, shooting routines, and dynamic warmups.
He ran a few laps, shoulders square, knees high. The blood started flowing.
Ramsey was to his right, Alexis on his left. They jogged in silence. Every now and then, Francesco glanced at them—not for reassurance, but to read their energy. Ramsey's jaw was tight. Alexis was already bouncing slightly, eyes fixed on the far goal like he wanted to sprint right now and tear the net open.
Soon the drills began.
Simple passing at first—short, sharp exchanges. Touch and move. Francesco's feet were light, his first touches crisp. Then came the quick triangles—Özil, Ramsey, Francesco—touch, pass, receive, lay-off. Wenger stood by the sideline, arms folded, eyes sweeping the field.
No jokes. No smiles. Just the sound of boots on turf and coaches barking tiny, surgical corrections: "Sharper, Santi." "Move earlier, Héctor." "Look over your shoulder, Frankie."
They moved into finishing drills next. Francesco took a pass from Cazorla on the edge of the box, spun left, and curled one low into the far corner. Next time, Özil chipped it softly into his path—Francesco didn't even let it bounce. He struck it clean on the volley, beating the reserve keeper at the near post.
He barely reacted. He didn't need to. The shots were just rehearsals. He'd celebrate when it counted.
They wrapped up the final phase with coordinated attacking waves. Wenger wanted them sharp in transition—move the ball quickly, switch flanks, don't let Chelsea settle into their low block. Francesco was playing out wide in the drill, but always drifting inward just behind Giroud. It was the position Wenger had emphasized in training—the spot behind Ivanović.
"Find the pocket," Wenger had said. "Don't wait for it. Create it."
When they finished the final drill, Wenger clapped his hands once. "Inside."
They jogged back toward the tunnel, the stadium now buzzing with growing anticipation. The stands were filling fast, red and white scarves everywhere, chants beginning to swell like a storm on the horizon.
Back in the dressing room, the kits were waiting.
The final kit—short sleeves, white shorts, white socks. The crest shining. Francesco stripped out of the training top and pulled on his match shirt. He ran his hand once over the badge. Arsenal. Home.
He sat down for a moment and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Breathing deep.
His phone buzzed in the cubby beside him.
Leah: I believe in you. Go make your mark.
He didn't reply. Not yet. But he read it twice.
Around him, the dressing room was filled with players in their final moments of focus. Alexis had his eyes closed, headphones in. Ramsey was muttering under his breath—some internal mantra.
Wenger stepped into the dressing room like a conductor about to cue his orchestra. He looked around the room, eyes falling on each of them—one by one—as if to say, I see you. I trust you. I chose you.
"Today," Wenger began, his voice steady and clear, "we don't just play a match. We define our season."
There was a pause. Long enough for those words to settle in.
"You know what this game means. Not just for the table—but for pride. For momentum. For what we want to achieve in May."
The room was still. No fidgeting, no glances. Just stillness.
"We will play our game. Our rhythm. Our tempo. Let them chase us."
He turned and pointed toward the tactics board, now uncovered, its magnetic pieces set meticulously into position.
"Today, we go with a 4-2-3-1."
He clicked each name into place as he spoke.
"Ospina in goal."
The Colombian keeper nodded, already taping his wrists.
"Monreal, Koscielny, Mertesacker—captain—and Bellerín across the back."
A couple of subtle nods. Mertesacker stood tall. He was never loud, but his leadership had weight.
"Coquelin and Cazorla as the midfield shield."
Coquelin sat upright, his jaw clenched. Cazorla gave a tight smile, rolling his shoulders, quietly steadying himself.
"Özil ahead of them—linking everything."
No reaction from Mesut, but that was expected. He was always in his own universe. Always playing the game before it even began.
"Alexis on the left. Francesco—right."
"Giroud leads the line."
The big Frenchman grunted a quiet "Let's go," under his breath, adjusting his boots.
Wenger continued, shifting to the subs.
"On the bench: Szczesny, Gibbs, Flamini, Ramsey, Wilshere, Walcott, and Welbeck."
Francesco could feel the tension building in the room—not a fearful tension, but the kind that sharpened focus like a blade against steel.
Then Wenger moved to the Chelsea side of the board.
"They'll line up in a 4-2-3-1 as well. Mourinho won't change what works. Courtois in goal. The back four: Azpilicueta, Cahill, Terry, Ivanović. Strong, physical, experienced."
He glanced toward Francesco when he said Ivanović. A silent reminder of their plan.
"Midfield pairing: Ramires and Matic. Expect bite. They'll try to win it early, especially against Cazorla."
Cazorla nodded. No fear. Just acknowledgment.
"Fabregas sits in the middle. You know him. He'll want time on the ball. Don't give it."
Then Wenger's eyes moved to Alexis.
"Left wing, Hazard. Right wing, Willian."
Then finally, a slight twist of the mouth.
"And up top: Oscar. Costa's out, but Oscar is smart, technical, always moving. He'll drop into midfield and try to pull one of our centre-backs out. Stay disciplined."
He paused, stepped back, and looked at them all again.
"You've trained for this. You've visualised it. Now you must feel it."
He let that breathe.
"I don't want hesitation. I don't want fear. I want fight. I want clarity. When you step out there, remember—you're not just playing Chelsea. You're playing for every inch we've fought for this season. You're playing for this club. For each other."
His eyes found Francesco again—briefly, but it landed.
"And for some of you… you're playing for your place in history."
Francesco swallowed hard.
Wenger stepped back toward the door, but before leaving, he turned once more.
"We play our game. Keep possession. Break lines. Trust the plan."
Then finally: "And boys… enjoy it."
And with that, he was gone.
There was a collective breath in the room, as if everyone had just surfaced after being underwater. A few stood to begin light stretches. Some leaned back, eyes closed, absorbing every word.
Francesco sat still for a moment longer, heart thudding in his chest—not from nerves, but from that impossible mix of focus and fire.
He looked down at his boots. Perfectly laced. Tight enough to hold, loose enough to fly.
He stood up slowly, shook out his arms, and gave Ramsey—now stretching by his locker—a small nod.
"Let's make it count," he said.
Ramsey cracked a smile. "Let's make it hurt."
Cazorla came over, bumping Francesco's fist. "Ivanović doesn't know what's coming."
Francesco grinned. "He'll learn fast."
Ospina slapped his gloves together. "Ten minutes."
The team moved like a unit now—no hesitation. Coquelin downed a final swig of electrolyte. Alexis ripped off his warm-up vest and slapped his chest like a war cry.
And then the call came.
The tunnel.
Francesco followed Mertesacker out, shoulder to shoulder with his teammates. The hallway was tight, the atmosphere heavy with history and heat.
Across from them: Chelsea. Blue shirts, sharp eyes, Mourinho pacing behind them like a lion in a cage.
Hazard caught Francesco's eye for a brief second. No malice—just awareness. Two players, two weapons, both locked in.
Then came the cue.
The walk.
The crowd roared as the teams emerged into the afternoon sun, the Emirates now fully awake and roaring. Scarves waving, drums pounding, a sea of red and white washing over the stands like a wave of thunder.
Francesco stepped out, the grass beneath his boots feeling more alive than ever.
He could barely hear himself think over the chants. But he didn't need to. He was ready. This was it. Chelsea. Arsenal. First versus second. The title race in full swing.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 30
Goal: 35
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8