If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Inside the dressing room again, the energy tightened. The music was turned off. The sound of boots tapping against the floor filled the silence. Players began changing into their match kits that is the red shirts, white sleeves, socks pulled up, shin guards strapped tight.
The air in the dressing room felt thick but not with tension, but with focus. Every heartbeat, every inhale, seemed to echo against the tiled walls. The players were all dressed now, the red and white shining clean under the soft lights. Boots were laced, armbands tightened, and one by one, the chatter faded into silence as Arsène Wenger turned to face them.
He looked at each player slowly, his hands resting lightly on the back of the leather bench in front of him. Behind him, the tactics board stood clean and precise with lines drawn in red and blue marker, the names already set in position.
"Alright, gentlemen," he began, voice low but steady, the calm before the storm. "This is it. The work we've done all week, it comes down to this moment."
He took a step closer to the board, pointing with the marker. "We go with the 4-3-3 today."
He turned the marker toward them, his expression sharp now. "Petr in goal."
Cech gave a small nod, calm and unreadable as always.
"Across the back four," Wenger continued, sliding the marker along the whiteboard, "Monreal on the left, Virgil and Laurent in the center, Héctor on the right. Keep compact, stay organized. Chelsea will try to overload the flanks with their wing-backs, we don't allow them that space."
He tapped the middle of the board. "N'Golo, you'll sit deep. Shield the back line, win the second balls. You know what to do."
Kanté nodded firmly, his face already locked in that quiet warrior's focus.
"Mesut, Santi," Wenger continued, "you two will be the engine. Santi, I want you dictating rhythm and controlling the tempo. Mesut, find the gaps. Pull their defenders apart, make them uncomfortable."
Then he drew the marker forward, placing it firmly on the line of three at the front. "Alexis on the left, Theo on the right."
Both players looked up, nodding with an energy that was almost electric. Alexis's eyes gleamed showing hungry, restless. Theo's jaw tightened, that familiar quiet determination written all over his face.
Then Wenger's hand moved to the very front of the formation, to the name that stood alone at the top.
"And leading the line," Wenger said, his gaze finally locking onto Francesco, "our captain."
Francesco met his manager's eyes. There was no speech, no grand gesture. The kind that spoke of trust built over years.
"You know your role," Wenger said quietly. "Set the tone. Lead them with your voice, your movement, your belief. Chelsea will try to slow you down, don't let them. Be everywhere they don't expect."
Francesco nodded once. "Understood, boss."
"Good."
Wenger turned the board around, setting the marker down. "The substitutes today is David, Shkodran, Kieran, Granit, Alex, Serge, and Olivier."
He looked at them all now — the starters, the bench, the staff, everyone in the room. "Every single one of you matters today. The ones starting, you write the first chapter. The ones waiting, you might write the last. But it's one story, one team. So whatever happens out there, we do it together."
The words hung in the air like the final notes of a hymn.
Then Wenger's tone softened slightly, almost fatherly. "Now go out there and show them who we are. Play our football, the Arsenal way."
The players rose in near unison. The scrape of boots against the floor echoed through the dressing room. Cazorla gave a quick grin toward Özil, patting his shoulder. Alexis bounced on his toes, headphones dangling now forgotten around his neck. Koscielny tied his armband tighter.
And Francesco, he stood still for a moment longer, the weight of the captain's band heavy but reassuring on his arm. He looked around the room, at every face, every teammate, every man ready to give everything for the crest.
"Let's make this count," he said quietly. "For us. For the fans. For Arsenal."
"COME ON, ARSENAL!" Sánchez roared, and the room came alive with energy, the sound rising like a storm.
Then came the knock on the door.
"Arsenal go to the tunnel, please."
The noise outside was distant but building that rolling, thunderous wave that only matchday could bring. Francesco led the way out, the corridor ahead bathed in a faint golden light from the tunnel entrance.
As they emerged into the tunnel, Chelsea were already there. Blue shirts lined one side, red on the other — two walls of focus and pride. The air was thick with intensity, every player lost in their own rituals. Hazard adjusted his gloves, Costa rolled his shoulders, Courtois cracked his neck from side to side.
Beside Francesco stood Branislav Ivanović, the Chelsea captain. Older, broader, with that weathered calm of a man who'd seen everything. They exchanged a short nod that not warmth, but respect.
The referee and his assistants stood in front, checking their earpieces and communication systems. The Premier League ball gleamed at their feet, pristine, ready.
Then, over the hum of the crowd above, came the voice of the official.
"Alright, gentlemen. We march."
The tunnel lights dimmed slightly as the stadium light flooded in. The roar that followed was deafening.
Francesco stepped out first.
The Emirates was alive with a sea of red and white waving, the sound swelling until it was almost physical. Flags rippled in the stands, scarves lifted high. The chant of "Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal!" rolled through the air like a thunderclap.
Francesco could feel it through his chest — that vibration, that electricity. The Emirates wasn't just a stadium now. It was a heartbeat.
The players walked out in line, Chelsea just a step beside them. Cameras flashed from every angle, Sky Sports capturing every frame, every glance, every expression.
On the touchline, Wenger stood with his arms folded, face calm but eyes sharp. Conte, a few meters away, was pacing already, barking instructions to his staff.
The players lined up beside the referees at the center line. The announcer's voice boomed through the stadium speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Emirates Stadium for today's Premier League fixture: Arsenal versus Chelsea!"
The noise was almost too much to take in with cheers, drums, the unified song of thousands.
Then, the sound cut slightly as the Premier League anthem began to play.
The players stood tall, side by side — red and blue lined shoulder to shoulder, the league crest shining on their sleeves. The anthem echoed around the Emirates, proud and grand, the sound of England's football heartbeat.
When the music ended, applause followed. Then came the handshake line.
The referees first, then each opposing player. Francesco shook hands with Courtois with firm, professional. Then Ivanović, who offered a simple nod.
"Good luck, captain," he said in his deep Serbian accent.
"You too," Francesco replied. "Let's make it a proper match."
As the line ended, the Arsenal players gathered for the official team photo. Francesco stood in the center, arms folded, chin slightly raised as Alexis on his left, Theo on his right. Behind them, Koscielny and Van Dijk stood shoulder to shoulder, the defenders of the line.
The flash went off with sound of click, click, click that freezing the moment forever.
Then, the players moved into their starting positions. But before the whistle, there was one last piece of ritual left.
The coin toss.
Francesco and Ivanović walked to the middle of the pitch, meeting the referee that is Martin Atkinson who in the center circle. The ball sat gleaming beside them, still untouched.
Atkinson smiled faintly, his whistle hanging loosely around his neck. "Alright, gentlemen. Classic coin toss."
He held out the coin. "Branislav, your call."
"Tails," Ivanović said, voice low.
The coin flicked into the air, spinning, catching the light before landing softly in the referee's palm.
Atkinson glanced down, then up. "Heads. Arsenal to choose."
Francesco gave a brief nod. "We'll take the kick-off."
"Good," Atkinson said, pocketing the coin. "Gentlemen, best of luck."
The two captains shook hands once more before heading back to their teams. The stands were already rising again, the roar building to a fever pitch.
As Francesco jogged back toward the center circle, he glanced around the stadium — the banners, the faces, the endless stretch of red. Then he looked to his right — his teammates in formation, waiting.
Theo shifted on his feet, ready to sprint. Alexis clapped his hands twice, calling for early movement. Özil adjusted his sleeve. Cazorla bounced lightly, smiling, relaxed but razor-focused.
Francesco stood over the ball. He could feel his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the crowd.
The whistle cut through the roar like a blade through silk that sharp, clean, absolute.
And just like that, the game began.
The first touch came from Francesco's boot, a short pass backward to Cazorla, smooth and deliberate, like striking a match to light a fire. The Emirates roared again as the ball moved quickly through Arsenal's ranks, each pass carrying purpose. This wasn't just football but it was tempo, rhythm, poetry disguised as pressure.
Chelsea, as expected, pressed high. Conte's men were disciplined, moving in compact lines that snapped shut like traps. Hazard and Willian hugged the touchlines while Diego Costa prowled between Van Dijk and Koscielny like a lion stalking prey. Behind them, Fabregas who once the darling of Arsenalm was now the orchestrator in blue, dictating tempo, looking for cracks to exploit.
But Arsenal's midfield refused to yield.
Kanté, small but ferocious, read every Chelsea movement like he had the script before the actors even spoke their lines. Time and again, he intercepted, slipped the ball to Cazorla, and melted back into position before anyone could react. Cazorla, meanwhile, was in his element with lowing center of gravity and endless balance letting him turn out of impossible spaces, dragging blue shirts with him like dancers spinning unwillingly to his rhythm.
Özil floated just ahead, the quiet ghost in the half-spaces. His first few touches drew cheers with a soft flick over Matic's challenge, a pirouette to escape Oscar, a lofted pass toward Walcott that forced Azpilicueta to head clear.
For the opening fifteen minutes, it was a war for control but not with blood, but with touch, timing, and tactical nerve.
Chelsea pressed, Arsenal countered. Then Arsenal pressed, and Chelsea countered. The ball zipped between red and blue, the noise from the stands never fading.
"Arsenal are holding their shape beautifully," said Martin Tyler's voice on Sky Sports commentary, faintly audible over the stadium broadcast. "You can see how the new captain, Francesco Lee, is leading that front line. Look at his movement, he's pulling Cahill and Luiz all over the place."
Beside him, Gary Neville added, "That's maturity beyond his age. He's not chasing shadows. He's waiting for the right gap, forcing Chelsea's defenders to make decisions they don't want to make."
Wenger, on the touchline, stood motionless that show the picture of calm, arms crossed, but his eyes burned with focus. Behind him, Steve Bould barked the occasional instruction, urging Monreal to step closer to Willian, shouting reminders for Hector to track Hazard's cut-ins.
The rhythm quickened.
Cazorla retrieved a loose ball from Kanté's challenge and switched it wide to Özil. Özil turned, feinted, and released a diagonal pass that curved like a painter's stroke toward Alexis. The Chilean killed it dead with his chest, spun, and drove forward. Ivanović met him with shoulder to shoulder, a battle of strength and speed, and somehow, the veteran Serb held his ground.
Alexis gritted his teeth, dragged it back, recycled to Monreal. The crowd roared encouragement anyway.
Francesco clapped twice, gesturing for quicker transitions. His voice cut through the hum: "Keep it moving! Move it fast!"
Cech's deep voice echoed from the back. "Shape! Keep the line!"
The battle in midfield intensified. Fabregas began to find his range with a clever chip to Oscar, a threaded pass into Costa's feet. Costa turned, spun, and fired but Van Dijk read it perfectly, blocking with his thigh and clearing. The ball broke to Cazorla, who immediately looked up and sent a long diagonal toward Walcott.
Walcott sprinted into the gap, catching Azpilicueta slightly off-balance. The Emirates rose as Theo surged toward the box, but Luiz slid across in time with a clean, crucial interception that drew muted applause even from the Arsenal fans.
It was chess at lightning speed.
Then came the 21st minute.
It started innocently enough with a recovery from Kanté deep in midfield. Chelsea had just tried to break through on the right, Hazard flicking to Fabregas, but Kanté cut across and stole it cleanly. In a single motion, he pivoted and slipped the ball to Cazorla.
And suddenly, Arsenal shifted gears.
Cazorla darted forward with two touches, Özil peeling away on his left. Santi hesitated just enough to make Matic step forward, then fed Özil with a disguised outside-foot pass. Özil barely looked up, one glance was all he needed as he saw Francesco already ghosting between Cahill and Luiz.
The pass came like a whisper through the defense with a curling, delicate, weighted perfectly.
Francesco's first touch killed it. His second was thunder.
A right-foot strike, clean and low, slicing past Courtois before the Belgian even dropped to his knees.
GOAL.
The Emirates exploded.
Francesco didn't celebrate wildly. He just ran toward the corner flag, clenched fists raised, eyes blazing with the calm of command. His teammates flooded around him — Alexis leapt on his back, Özil wrapped him in an embrace, Cazorla laughed out loud as he jogged over.
Wenger's expression softened — that subtle, proud smile that said everything without words.
"Arsenal take the lead! Francesco Lee again!" shouted Martin Tyler on Sky Sports. "He just doesn't miss, does he? The captain delivers, and what a finish that is!"
Neville added, "It's textbook center-forward play. He times the run perfectly, splits the center-backs, and the finish, it's just ruthless. That's why he's one of the best in the league."
1–0.
The Emirates reverberated with song: "We've got Francesco Lee! He scores when he wants!"
Conte was barking orders furiously from the touchline, gesturing for Matic to drop deeper, for Fabregas to stay tighter to Kanté. But the momentum had swung, Arsenal could smell blood.
Chelsea tried to respond quickly. Willian pushed forward on the right, cutting in on Monreal and whipping a dangerous cross toward Costa. Koscielny tracked him perfectly, rising first and heading clear. Hazard latched onto the rebound, tried to curl one from the edge of the box, but Cech was ready, catching it calmly.
The chant of "Super Petr Cech!" rolled around the Emirates.
Wenger clapped his hands twice from the touchline. "Keep going! Keep the pressure!"
And they did.
Only six minutes later in the 27th, Arsenal struck again.
It began with Özil again, deep in the right half-space. Chelsea had just cleared a cross from Walcott, and the ball fell to Mesut under pressure. Instead of panicking, he flicked it past Oscar with one touch, turned, and released a quick pass forward to Alexis.
Alexis caught it in stride, and then it was pure chaos.
He burst forward, the Chilean's acceleration blistering. Ivanović lunged but missed, Alexis sidestepped, brushing off the challenge like wind through smoke. Luiz came next with arms wide, trying to shepherd him outside but Alexis shifted the ball to his right foot with a feint so sharp it made Luiz stumble.
And then, bang.
A thunderbolt of a shot across goal, high and unstoppable.
The net rippled, Courtois frozen mid-dive.
2–0.
The Emirates detonated again, red scarves flying, fans leaping from their seats. Alexis tore off toward the corner, pounding his chest, roaring into the stands as Francesco caught up, pulling him into a fierce hug.
"¡Eso es! That's how we do it!" Alexis shouted, breathless, eyes blazing.
Francesco laughed, half-shouting over the noise. "You're insane!"
Cazorla jogged up, grinning ear to ear. "Insane, yes! Brilliant, absolutely!"
Wenger couldn't hide his smile now, even he let a small fist pump escape.
Conte, meanwhile, stood with hands on hips, his jaw tight. He turned to his assistant, muttering furiously in Italian. Chelsea's shape was crumbling under Arsenal's speed and fluidity.
Sky Sports cameras zoomed in on Francesco and Sánchez walking back toward midfield, arms slung over each other's shoulders, the crowd still singing.
Martin Tyler's voice came again, riding the sound of the crowd:
"Twenty-seven minutes gone, and Arsenal are flying. This is vintage Wenger-ball — pace, movement, precision. Chelsea look shell-shocked!"
Gary Neville added, "And look at that partnership, Francesco and Sánchez. It's telepathic. They move like they're reading each other's minds."
By now, the rhythm of the game belonged entirely to Arsenal. Chelsea tried to regroup, to pull numbers back, but every time they crossed halfway, they met a wall — Kanté tackling like a whirlwind, Van Dijk sweeping calmly behind, Monreal pressing high.
Francesco, though a striker, was pressing relentlessly from the front that forcing Luiz and Cahill into hurried clearances. His voice could be heard over the crowd, sharp, commanding: "Push! Push! Don't let them breathe!"
Walcott nearly made it three minutes later, cutting inside from the right and rifling a shot just wide of the far post. Courtois was rooted, beaten if it had been an inch closer.
Chelsea tried to settle with their own attacks with a long pass from Fabregas finding Costa, who wrestled with Koscielny, managing to turn and shoot. But Cech was alert again, diving low to parry. The rebound bounced to Hazard, but Bellerín slid across with immaculate timing, clearing it into touch.
The home fans rose to applaud. "Come on, Arsenal!"
At the half-hour mark, the scoreboard glowed ARSENAL 2–0 CHELSEA, and you could feel the confidence surging through the red shirts. Every touch was crisp, every pass had conviction. Özil was gliding now, Cazorla was conducting, Kanté was dictating.
And Francesco was everywhere. Dropping deep to link, sprinting wide to drag defenders, shouting directions to Walcott and Alexis. His leadership wasn't loud or dramatic. It was steady, relentless, contagious.
From the Sky Sports gantry, Tyler's words summed it up best:
"You can see what Arsène Wenger meant when he gave Francesco the armband. It's not about age. It's about presence. He's the pulse of this Arsenal side."
The hum of the Emirates was back to its full rhythm with red scarves waving, drums echoing faintly from the Clock End, chants rippling through the stands like an electric current. The match had settled into a fierce tempo again, Chelsea trying to claw their way back into rhythm after being battered for half an hour.
Then, in the 31st minute, came the spark that almost ignited into chaos.
Mesut Özil had just picked up the ball on the half-turn near the center circle, gliding as only he could do that effortless, almost poetic grace that made defenders look clumsy by comparison. He slipped past Oscar with a feint, then turned sharply to shield it from Matic. The ball was barely an inch from his toe when Fabregas came flying in.
The contact was sharp, a clatter of boots against shin. Özil tumbled forward with a small cry, rolling once, clutching his ankle.
The Emirates gasped.
"Fabregas! Oh, that's late!" Martin Tyler's voice echoed from the gantry. "You can feel the tension now. That was reckless from the former Arsenal captain."
The whistle went immediately that was sharp, urgent. Martin Atkinson rushed in, arm raised.
Cazorla was the first to reach Özil, kneeling beside him. "Are you okay?" he asked quickly, hand on Mesut's shoulder.
Özil nodded, grimacing, rolling his ankle once to test it. "I'm fine," he muttered through clenched teeth.
But Francesco wasn't fine.
He was already there, storming forward, his face burning red under the stadium lights. He didn't hesitate, didn't think because it was just pure instinct.
"Oi!" Francesco barked, jabbing a finger toward Fabregas. "What the hell was that, Cesc?!"
Fabregas, still breathing heavily from the tackle, looked up sharply, his own frustration spilling over. "It was the ball, mate! The ball!"
"The ball?" Francesco shot back, stepping closer. "You nearly took his leg off!"
"Don't lecture me, kid," Fabregas snapped, straightening his shirt, jaw tightening. "You think wearing that armband makes you the boss of me?"
Francesco's eyes flashed. "No. But I'll remind you, you walked away from this club. You called yourself one of us and left for Barcelona. Don't talk to me about loyalty."
The crowd sensed it, the roar growing louder, tension crackling in the air. Bellerín pulled at Francesco's arm, muttering, "Fran, leave it, mate! Leave it!"
But the memory had already flared with that bitter wound between the Arsenal fans and the prodigal son who left. Francesco had been a teenager then, sitting in the stands, heartbroken watching Fabregas wave goodbye.
Fabregas's glare hardened. "Careful what you say, boy."
Martin Atkinson stepped between them before it escalated further, palm out. "Enough! Both of you, back off!"
He turned first to Fabregas, raising a yellow card. "Reckless challenge, that's a booking."
The crowd erupted in approval, jeers mixing with cheers.
Then he turned to Francesco, lowering his voice. "And you, captain or not, you keep your temper. One more word and it's you next."
Francesco nodded stiffly, still glaring at Fabregas before stepping back, chest rising and falling fast.
As play resumed, Özil gave him a small, reassuring pat on the arm. "Let it go," Mesut said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I'm fine."
Francesco exhaled through his nose, nodded once. But his jaw stayed tight for a few minutes longer, his tackles sharper, his runs harder with anger transmuted into pure drive.
The game settled again, though the intensity never dipped. Chelsea, rattled but not broken, began to regroup. Matic and Fabregas dropped deeper, Hazard started finding more pockets between Arsenal's lines, and Costa kept wrestling for every inch against Van Dijk and Koscielny.
The minutes ticked on toward halftime.
In the 39th minute, Hazard finally broke free as slipping inside Bellerín and driving diagonally toward goal. The Belgian curled a low shot toward the far corner, but Cech was immaculate with diving full stretch, gloves snapping around the ball before he rose and calmly rolled it out to Monreal.
"Still Cech there, the old guardian of Arsenal's goal," said Gary Neville on Sky Sports. "That save keeps their clean sheet intact."
The crowd applauded the calm authority of their veteran keeper.
Arsenal saw out the rest of the half with disciplined composure. When the whistle finally went, the Emirates stood to applaud at the score 2–0.
Francesco led the team off the pitch, wiping sweat from his brow, eyes scanning the stands. Cameras caught him exchanging a few quiet words with Özil and Alexis, then walking alongside Wenger into the tunnel.
London Colney's air was thick with the humid mix of sweat, grass, and adrenaline. Boots thudded against the floor, the low chatter of players fading as Wenger entered, calm as ever, clipboard in hand.
He didn't raise his voice. He never needed to.
"Alright, everyone, listen." His tone was soft, steady. "That was one of our best halves this season. Compact, intelligent, expressive. You played with control."
He looked toward Francesco, eyes warm but firm. "Francesco, good leadership. But be careful with your emotions. Fabregas will try to draw you in again. Do not respond. You lead by focus, not anger, yes?"
Francesco nodded quietly. "Yes, boss."
Wenger smiled faintly, then pointed at the tactical board. "Now, second half. Chelsea will change shape. Conte will likely push Alonso higher and move Willian inside to press Cazorla. That means more space behind their full-backs. Bellerín, Monreal this is your time. Overlap, stretch them. Özil, Francesco, Alexis, I want you three stay fluid. Don't stay central; drag them out."
He circled a few magnets on the board, the pieces dancing into new positions under his hand. "And when you win the ball, transition fast. Don't let them breathe. We score the next goal, and the game is finished."
He clapped his hands once. "Now go, finish it."
The roar that greeted Arsenal's return was deafening. Chelsea had made no substitutions yet, but their formation had clearly shifted as Conte shouting instructions from the touchline, urging his men to press higher.
Francesco glanced toward Özil as the whistle blew again. "Same rhythm," he murmured.
Özil smiled faintly. "Always."
And they went.
Right from the restart, Arsenal pressed like a storm. Cazorla and Kanté smothered the midfield, Özil floated between lines, Francesco chased down every loose ball. Chelsea barely had a touch before being forced backward.
Walcott, full of energy, made run after run down the right flank, testing Azpilicueta's legs. The Emirates was alive again, every red shirt moving like clockwork.
"Arsenal have come out flying again," Martin Tyler narrated over the noise. "It's relentless pressure from Wenger's side, Conte's men can't find a second to breathe."
Then, in the 54th minute, it happened.
Chelsea had tried to break through the middle, Fabregas again attempting to slide a pass into Costa's feet. But Kanté had anticipated it. He darted in, stole it cleanly, and instantly sent it wide to Bellerín.
Bellerín burst forward, sprinting down the right flank, legs pumping, grass flying beneath him. Walcott was already on the move, darting inside between Azpilicueta and Cahill.
The pass came low and fast, skimming the turf like a bullet.
Theo didn't even take a touch. He met it first-time with the inside of his foot, redirecting it perfectly across Courtois into the far corner.
GOAL.
3–0.
The Emirates erupted, a wall of sound that seemed to lift the roof off.
Theo slid on his knees toward the corner flag, arms wide, face lit up with joy. Bellerín sprinted over, leaping onto his back, while Francesco arrived seconds later, wrapping an arm around both of them.
Wenger punched the air on the sideline — not wild, but proud.
"Three-nil to Arsenal!" Tyler's voice cut through the roar. "Theo Walcott with a brilliant finish, set up by Bellerín — and this could be the nail in Chelsea's coffin!"
Gary Neville added, "Look at the energy, look at the tempo. This is exactly what Wenger wanted with win the ball, transition fast, attack the space. Perfect execution."
The cameras zoomed on Francesco, smiling as he pointed to Walcott and mouthed, that's how we do it. The captain's approval drew cheers from the fans near the pitch.
Conte looked shell-shocked, pacing his technical area, gesturing wildly for his players to push up, to fight. But there was no stopping it now as Arsenal were in full flow, a masterpiece of precision and confidence.
The chants filled the air again, louder, prouder, endless:
"♪ We've got Francesco Lee, he scores when he wants! ♪"
"♪ Super Theo! Arsenal's flying free! ♪"
Francesco glanced around the Emirates, the red sea of flags waving, his heart pounding in rhythm with the noise.
The rhythm of the match never really slowed, as it only changed color. By the time the clock struck past the hour mark, Arsenal were dancing to their own tempo, their passes like brushstrokes on a canvas that the crowd could only marvel at. Chelsea, in contrast, were shadows — chasing, lunging, trying, but never really touching what Wenger's men had crafted that afternoon.
Then, in the 64th minute, the rhythm shifted again.
Arsène Wenger stepped forward from the technical area, eyes sharp behind those familiar thin-framed glasses. He turned to Steve Bould, murmured something, then raised two fingers toward the fourth official. The board went up moments later: 14 — Walcott off, 27 — Gnabry on. Then again, 19 — Cazorla off, 29 — Xhaka on.
Theo jogged off to a standing ovation, sweat glistening on his face as he clapped toward the crowd. He looked over to Francesco, who gave him a light tap on the chest as he passed. "Great shift, mate." Cazorla followed behind him, smiling faintly, high-fiving Xhaka as he exited.
The replacements changed the shape slightly with Xhaka slotting deep beside Kanté, stabilizing the middle with his strength and sharp passing; Gnabry moving wide right, youthful energy buzzing through every muscle, eager to prove himself on the big stage after months on the fringes.
At the same time, on the other bench, Antonio Conte finally moved his hand. He barked toward the fourth official, gesturing furiously. The electronic board lit again: 22 — Willian off, 11 — Pedro on.
Pedro jogged on, clapping his hands, trying to bring life into the tired Chelsea attack. Conte shouted instructions in rapid Italian, hands slicing through the air: "Più avanti! Pressa! Pressa!" Push higher. Press harder.
But Arsenal didn't budge.
For every blue surge, there was a red wall as Van Dijk and Koscielny reading every cross before it dropped, Bellerin covering Hazard's, Monreal tracking Pedro's runs like a shadow. And behind them, Petr Čech who calm, monumental that moved with the quiet authority of a man who had seen it all before.
In the 67th minute, Chelsea tried their best move yet. Hazard drifted in from the left, slipping past Bellerín with a feint, laying it to Fabregas, who nudged a pass through to Costa. Costa spun, muscled Van Dijk, and shot low but Čech was there, dropping fast, his gloves swallowing the ball.
The Emirates applauded in rhythm, chanting his name:
"♪ Petr Čech! Petr Čech! He's one of our own! ♪"
Wenger, on the touchline, merely nodded. "Keep the focus," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Then, the 73rd minute.
It began from the back, as most of Arsenal's beauty did. Xhaka, newly arrived, won the ball in midfield with a sharp interception on Matic. One quick touch to steady himself, then a piercing diagonal pass with a classic Xhaka arrow that slicing through Chelsea's half. Gnabry was already sprinting, his timing perfect.
The young German took it in stride, his boots thudding lightly against the turf as he drove down the right wing. Azpilicueta tried to keep up, but Gnabry had youth on his side, pace and hunger written in every motion. He reached the edge of the box, paused that just enough to make Cahill hesitate, and then curved a low pass into the center.
Mesut Özil arrived like poetry in motion.
He didn't even look up. His body knew what to do with one soft touch, then a delicate lift over Courtois with the inside of his left foot. The ball arced, kissed the far post, and dropped into the net.
4–0.
The Emirates exploded.
"Mesut Özil!" Martin Tyler's voice thundered from the gantry. "The magician joins the party, and it's young Serge Gnabry with the assist! Arsenal are painting London red!"
Gary Neville laughed beside him, disbelief and admiration in his tone. "That's outrageous composure. Gnabry's cross was sharp, but look at Özil with the confidence, the timing. You can't teach that. Arsenal are untouchable today."
Gnabry slid on his knees near the corner flag, arms spread, face beaming. Özil caught up, wrapping an arm around the youngster's shoulders. Francesco arrived seconds later, smiling wide, ruffling Gnabry's hair.
"You've earned it, kid," he said, voice half-lost in the roar.
Gnabry grinned back, breathless. "Felt like a dream!"
"Keep dreaming," Francesco replied with a grin. "It's how we build this."
The camera caught the three of them with the young, the master, and the captain in one frame. Sky Sports' commentary picked it up perfectly:
"That's Arsenal's future right there," Neville said softly. "Lee, Özil, Gnabry with two different generations of the same philosophy."
But for all the celebration, the fire on the pitch wasn't done burning.
The next ten minutes turned gritty, testy, as Chelsea's frustration bubbled over. Costa, already seething from the scoreline and his duels with Van Dijk, began to lose control. He shoved, grappled, taunted but Virgil gave back just as much, cool and towering.
Then, in the 78th minute, it nearly boiled over.
Costa went up for a header; Van Dijk challenged cleanly. They landed tangled, and Costa immediately shoved him in the chest. Van Dijk stepped forward, unflinching. The crowd roared, sensing trouble.
"Uh-oh," Martin Tyler said sharply. "Here we go, Costa and Van Dijk face to face!"
For a second, it looked like fists might fly. Costa's eyes burned, Van Dijk's jaw tightened.
But then Francesco was there with sprinting across the pitch, inserting himself between them, palms out. "Enough!" he barked, shoving Costa back with one arm while pressing his other hand against Van Dijk's chest.
"Walk away," he ordered, tone sharp but calm. "We're winning. Don't give them a way back."
At the same moment, Ivanović jogged over, grabbing Costa by the arm. "Calma, Diego! Calma!"
The referee rushed in, whistle screaming through the noise. He flashed a yellow card to both, but it was clear — it was Francesco and Ivanović who had diffused the bomb before it went off.
As play resumed, Francesco clapped Van Dijk on the back. "Don't let him drag you down. He's playing angry now."
Van Dijk nodded, calm returning to his eyes. "He's already lost, captain."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Exactly."
The game pressed on as Chelsea trying, pushing, throwing bodies forward, but Arsenal's composure never cracked. Xhaka and Kanté worked like machinery in midfield, cutting every pass; Özil and Sánchez dropped deep to help, countering when space opened.
Then came the 84th minute.
Wenger stood again, arms folded, scanning his captain. Francesco had run himself ragged — pressing, tackling, linking every move. The job was done, and Wenger knew it. He turned to the fourth official once more.
The board lit up: 9 — Francesco Lee off, 12 — Giroud on.
As the number appeared, the Emirates crowd rose to its feet in applause, the sound almost affectionate. Francesco looked up, exhaled, and gave a tired smile. He unstrapped the captain's armband from his bicep and turned to Koscielny.
"Your turn, skipper," he said, handing it over.
Koscielny nodded, eyes steady. "You've led well, Francesco. Rest easy."
Francesco patted him on the shoulder, then clapped hands with Giroud as he jogged off. Every fan near the touchline cheered his name. Some held up scarves, others phones, all wanting to capture the image of their captain walking off the battlefield, sweat-soaked and proud.
On the other bench, Conte finally emptied his last card.
4 — Fabregas off, 10 — Hazard off.
3 — Alonso on, 23 — Batshuayi on.
It was a strange mix of desperation and damage control as Hazard had been quiet, stifled by Bellerín all night, and Fabregas' legs were gone. Conte wanted directness, height, maybe a miracle. But Arsenal were already too far gone.
Giroud slotted up top, holding play when needed, drifting wide to help Sánchez. Özil, now free of defensive duties, floated through the gaps, orchestrating every rhythm.
Chelsea's last surge came at 88 minutes as Pedro's curling shot deflected by Koscielny, the rebound smashed by Matic but Cech was unyielding, his hands swallowing the ball once more, his composure sealing the night.
And then, as the clock ticked past ninety and the Emirates swelled in song, the referee raised his whistle to his lips.
Peeep! Peeep! Peeep!
Full time.
Arsenal 4 – 0 Chelsea.
The stadium erupted.
Red scarves spun through the air like ribbons, the North Bank exploding into a chorus that shook the night:
"♪ Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal! ♪"
Wenger allowed himself a rare smile as he shook hands with Conte at the touchline as the Italian tight-lipped, polite but visibly stung.
On the pitch, Francesco walked back out to join the celebration, still in his training top now, clapping toward the fans as teammates embraced one another. Özil and Sánchez hugged near midfield; Walcott and Bellerín exchanged laughs near the corner flag; Gnabry was mobbed by substitutes with the young star of the night.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 7
Goal: 9
Assist: 0
MOTM: 1
POTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9