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He headed upstairs, the countdown clock now a memory, the window closed, the focus sharpened. And as he reached the bedroom, slipping into the quiet warmth of the space he shared with Leah.
Then the days didn't rush toward February 4th.
They moved the way a season always did once the noise of the transfer window faded that steadily, deliberately, marked not by headlines but by routine. Training sessions blurred into one another, recovery days softened the edges, tactical meetings sharpened focus. The calm that followed the window closure wasn't emptiness; it was clarity.
Francesco felt it in his body first.
The way he woke up lighter.
The way his legs responded in training.
The way his mind stopped splitting itself between football and everything orbiting it.
Now there was only the football again.
And Chelsea away was never just football.
Then on 4 February 2026
The morning was cold and sharp, the kind of London winter morning that cut through layers and woke you up properly. Francesco arrived at London Colney earlier than most, as usual. The training ground sat quiet, mist hanging low over the grass, floodlights still glowing faintly even though daylight had begun to creep in.
Today felt different.
Not anxious. Not heavy.
Important.
Chelsea away always carried weight from history, rivalry, tension, but this one felt like a test rather than a threat. A measuring stick.
Inside the building, players filtered in one by one, nods exchanged, voices low but purposeful. No loud music. No forced bravado. Just concentration.
Francesco pulled on his Arsenal tracksuit, tied his trainers, and slung his small backpack over his shoulder. When he stepped back into the corridor, he caught sight of Kyle Walker adjusting his gloves, expression calm, eyes already elsewhere.
Virgil van Dijk stood near the noticeboard, arms folded, listening to Laurent Koscielny speaking quietly. Experience layered upon experience.
This was a grown squad.
The bus waited outside.
Black. Long. Imposing.
As they boarded, the familiar smell of leather seats and faint coffee lingered in the air. Francesco took his usual seat that not at the front, not at the back. Somewhere in the middle, where he could feel the team around him.
Theo Walcott slid into the seat beside him, adjusting his headphones.
"Feels like one of those days," Theo said quietly.
Francesco glanced at him. "Good ones or bad ones?"
Theo smiled. "The ones that matter."
The bus pulled away smoothly, London unfolding outside the windows from grey buildings, wet roads, people bundled into coats, unaware that two rival squads were moving toward each other with very different intentions.
No one spoke much.
Phones stayed mostly untouched.
Some players stared out the window. Others closed their eyes. Some bounced their knees lightly, muscles primed.
Francesco rested his head back, breathing steady.
Chelsea away.
He'd played there before. Scored there before. Lost there before.
Stamford Bridge never gave you anything.
You took it.
The bus slowed as it turned into the stadium complex, security guiding it forward. Blue banners lined the approach. Chelsea crests everywhere. The air felt different here that tighter, colder somehow, even with the same winter sky overhead.
The bus came to a stop.
Silence.
Then movement.
The doors opened, and one by one, the Arsenal players stepped down onto the pavement. Camera shutters clicked instantly. Shouts rang out as some jeering, some just noise for noise's sake.
Francesco stepped off, jacket zipped up, headphones on but no music playing. He didn't look at the fans. Didn't acknowledge the cameras.
Straight ahead.
Inside the stadium, the corridors swallowed them whole. Concrete walls, fluorescent lighting, the echo of footsteps bouncing back.
The dressing room door opened.
Blue signs outside. Away dressing room. Smaller than the home one. Tighter. But functional.
They dropped their bags, moved instinctively to their places. Francesco hung his jacket, sat down, loosened his shoulders. The smell of liniment filled the room as physios began their work.
No speeches yet.
Just preparation.
They changed into training kits from shorts, tops, socks pulled high. Boots laced carefully, each player with their own ritual.
When they stepped back out toward the pitch for warm-ups, the stadium was already alive.
Chelsea blue dominated the stands. Flags waved. Songs echoed. The pitch glistened under floodlights, pristine and unforgiving.
Francesco jogged out last among the starters, scanning the space automatically. The dimensions. The turf. The way the air carried sound.
Chelsea players were already out as some stretching, some passing lightly. Gary Cahill stood near the center, captain's armband on, directing a few words toward his teammates.
Their eyes met briefly.
No hostility.
Just recognition.
Then the warm-up began.
Passing drills. Short sprints. Movement patterns.
Francesco moved sharply, every touch clean, every turn precise. Theo looked quick despite the time out. Iwobi's feet danced lightly, confidence growing with each touch. Kanté covered ground effortlessly even in warm-up, a reminder of his engine.
Walker exploded into short bursts down the right, then slowed himself deliberately, conserving. Van Dijk's presence at the back was already commanding, voice carrying even without shouting.
Francesco felt good.
Not hyped.
Ready.
After the final sprint, they jogged back inside, breath visible again as the stadium noise dimmed behind concrete walls.
The atmosphere changed when the door closed.
No distractions now.
Players peeled off training tops, changed into match kits. Red shirts laid out neatly. White sleeves. Numbers bold.
Francesco pulled on his shirt last.
The captain's armband sat folded on his bench.
He wrapped it around his arm carefully, adjusting it once, twice, until it felt right.
Wenger entered quietly.
No dramatic entrance. No raised voice.
Just presence.
He stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, scanning the room. Every player looked up instinctively.
"This is a big match," Wenger began calmly. "Not because of the table. Not because of the rivalry."
He paused.
"But because of what it demands from you."
He gestured toward the tactics board.
"Today we play 4–2–3–1."
He pointed deliberately.
"Petr," he said, nodding toward Cech. "You lead from the back."
The defenders followed.
"Nacho on the left. Virgil and Laurent in the center. Kyle on the right."
Walker nodded once.
"Discipline. Compactness. Trust."
Then midfield.
"N'Golo. Granit. You are the balance. Protect. Break. Transition."
Kanté and Xhaka both acknowledged quietly.
"Mesut," Wenger said, turning slightly. "You find the spaces. You make them uncomfortable."
Özil gave a small nod, eyes already elsewhere, seeing the game before it happened.
"Alex," Wenger continued, "you start on the left. Be brave. Direct. Don't hesitate."
Iwobi swallowed once, then nodded firmly.
"Theo," Wenger said, "you are on the right. Stretch them. Attack the space. Trust your pace."
Theo straightened slightly, determination etched across his face.
Wenger's gaze finally settled on Francesco.
"And Francesco," he said, voice steady. "You lead. You finish. You set the tone."
Francesco met his eyes. "Yes, boss."
Wenger glanced at the bench.
"Ospina. Mustafi. Robertson. Bellerín. Gnabry. Santi. Olivier."
Each substitute knew their role.
"Chelsea will press," Wenger continued. "They will test us early. Stay patient. Stay compact. We play our football."
He stepped back.
"That is all."
No shouting.
No dramatics.
Just trust.
The referee's knock came at the door.
Time.
They lined up.
One by one, players filed out, the tunnel narrowing everything into focus. The noise of the stadium surged back, louder now, heavier.
Chelsea players stood beside them.
Blue shirts. Familiar faces.
Francesco took his place at the front, captain's armband firm on his arm.
Beside him stood Gary Cahill.
Chelsea captain.
Veteran. Leader.
They exchanged a brief nod.
"Good luck," Cahill said.
"You too," Francesco replied.
The referee stepped forward, whistle hanging at his chest.
A signal.
They walked.
The stadium opened up around them, a wall of sound crashing down. Cameras flashed. Fans roared.
They lined up beside the referee.
Handshakes followed with referees first, then opposition players.
Firm grips. Brief eye contact. No smiles.
Team photo.
Arsenal stood together, arms linked lightly over shoulders. Francesco stood front and center, gaze fixed straight ahead.
This mattered.
Then the captains stepped forward.
Francesco and Cahill met the referee at the center circle.
The coin spun.
Cahill called it.
Correct.
Chelsea kick-off.
Cahill nodded, satisfied.
Francesco didn't react.
They shook hands.
As they walked back to their halves, Francesco glanced once more at the stands, then down at the grass beneath his boots.
Cold.
Perfect.
He raised his arm slightly, signaling to his teammates.
Focus.
The whistle cut cleanly through the night.
Sharp. Final.
And just like that, everything Wenger had spoken about compressed into motion.
Chelsea kicked off.
The ball rolled backward, Fabregas touching it first, calm and deliberate, before shifting it wide. The stadium surged immediately, blue noise crashing forward, Stamford Bridge alive in that familiar, hostile rhythm that never quite slept.
Francesco didn't move at first.
He stood tall at the center circle, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning. He watched the first few passes not as a spectator, but as a reader with taking in tempo, spacing, intent. Chelsea weren't rushing. They were probing, feeling for edges.
Then the first wave came.
Diego Costa dropped off his marker, body angled, arm already out to feel where Van Dijk was. Hazard drifted inward from the left, boots gliding across the turf with that deceptive ease that always made defenders hesitate. Pedro tucked in from the opposite side, sharp and sudden, darting between lines.
It was the kind of movement that unsettled teams before they realized it.
Arsenal didn't flinch.
Walker stepped up immediately when Hazard received the ball near the touchline. Not diving in. Not backing off too much either. Just close enough. Just balanced enough. He angled his body perfectly, showing Hazard toward the sideline, denying the inside lane that Hazard lived for.
Hazard tried it anyway.
A quick drop of the shoulder. A burst forward.
Walker matched him stride for stride.
Boot to boot. Shoulder to shoulder.
Hazard attempted a cutback, but Walker stayed connected, forcing the ball loose with a clean, firm touch. The crowd groaned.
On the opposite flank, Pedro found no more joy.
Monreal stayed tight, low center of gravity, eyes never leaving the ball. Pedro tried to spin him once, twice, but Nacho read it beautifully, stepping across at exactly the right moment, using his body rather than his feet. Simple. Effective. Ruthless in its own quiet way.
In the center, Costa battled.
Of course he did.
He threw himself into Van Dijk early, testing the limits, trying to establish dominance. Van Dijk didn't rise to it. He absorbed the contact like it was nothing, chest firm, feet planted. When Costa tried to roll him, Laurent Koscielny was already there, cutting off the angle, anticipating the second ball before it existed.
Muscle and mind.
Power and intelligence.
Costa snarled something under his breath, frustration flashing across his face.
Francesco noticed.
He always did.
Chelsea recycled possession, trying again through midfield. Fabregas looked to dictate, but the moment he lifted his head, Kanté was there. Not tackling, not fouling, just present. A shadow. A constant irritation. Every lane Fabregas wanted to play through felt half a second slower, half a yard narrower.
Matić tried to step forward with the ball, only to be met by Xhaka's body position, angled perfectly to shepherd him sideways rather than forward. Özil hovered between them, closing passing lanes without ever seeming hurried, forcing Chelsea to go wide again.
Alonso pushed high from the left. Moses mirrored him on the right.
They tried to stretch Arsenal's shape.
It didn't work.
Every time Alonso crossed the halfway line, Walcott tracked him just far enough to make him think twice. Moses found Iwobi waiting, alert, feet light, body turned to spring either way.
Chelsea had possession.
Arsenal had control.
The opening ten minutes passed like that with a study in resistance. Chelsea pressing, probing, attempting to accelerate the game. Arsenal absorbing it, shaping it, bending it without breaking.
Francesco dropped deep once, dragging Cahill with him, creating space behind. Azpilicueta glanced over his shoulder, hesitating. Luiz stepped forward instinctively, then checked himself.
That half-second was enough.
Özil slid a pass through, just beyond Francesco's reach. It didn't matter. The message had been sent.
You hesitate, and we're gone.
Chelsea responded with aggression.
Costa chased a loose ball into the corner, clattering into Koscielny late enough to draw a roar from the stands. The referee warned him, calm but firm. Costa raised his hands, innocence painted poorly across his face.
Francesco jogged over briefly, placing himself between Costa and Koscielny.
"Easy," he said quietly. Not a threat. A statement.
Costa smirked, eyes flicking up and down. "We'll see."
They separated.
The tempo lifted.
Hazard tried again, this time cutting inside earlier, attempting to combine with Fabregas. Walker stuck with him, forcing the pass backward. Kanté stepped in, intercepted cleanly, and suddenly Arsenal were moving.
One touch from Kanté to Xhaka.
Xhaka to Özil.
Özil didn't even look up.
The ball slid into space, perfectly weighted, perfectly timed.
Francesco accelerated.
Cahill turned late. Luiz scrambled across. Azpilicueta dropped, trying to cover the channel.
Francesco got there first.
He held the ball up, feeling Cahill press into his back, then laid it off to Walcott on the right. Walcott burst forward, forcing Alonso to retreat, then cut the ball back centrally.
Iwobi was arriving.
The shot was blocked.
The rebound popped loose.
Chelsea cleared, but not far.
The Emirates would've exploded.
Here, Stamford Bridge grumbled, uneasy.
Arsenal had announced themselves.
Minutes passed, and the pattern solidified.
Chelsea couldn't find rhythm through the middle. Arsenal's triangle of Kanté, Xhaka, and Özil suffocated space, forcing play wide where Walker and Monreal were relentless. Every duel felt contested. Every second ball felt earned.
Francesco was everywhere.
Dropping deep. Pulling wide. Occupying both center-backs at once simply by existing between them. Cahill stuck tight, Luiz tried to step out, but neither could fully commit without exposing something else.
It wore on them.
At the 19th minute, Walker surged forward again, overlapping Walcott with real intent this time. Moses hesitated, track Walker or close Walcott? He chose wrong.
Walcott slipped the ball into Walker's path.
Walker didn't cross immediately.
He took one more touch, lifted his head.
Francesco was already moving.
Not toward the near post.
Not toward the far.
Between.
Cahill shifted. Luiz reacted a fraction late.
Walker whipped the ball in low and hard, skidding across the turf with venom.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch.
Instinctive.
He opened his body just enough, guiding the ball with the inside of his boot, threading it past Courtois' outstretched leg.
Time slowed.
The ball kissed the inside of the post.
Then the net rippled.
23rd minute.
Silence.
For half a heartbeat, Stamford Bridge didn't know how to respond.
Then noise erupted but fractured, disbelieving.
Francesco turned away immediately, jaw clenched, arms spreading only briefly before he was swarmed. Walcott reached him first, shouting something lost to the noise. Walker followed, fist pumping hard, eyes blazing.
Van Dijk jogged up from the back, nodding once.
Özil smiled faintly.
1–0 Arsenal.
Francesco didn't celebrate wildly.
He didn't need to.
He pointed once toward Walker as they jogged back.
Acknowledgment.
Chelsea looked rattled now.
Costa gestured angrily toward his midfield. Fabregas clapped his hands sharply, demanding calm. Cahill barked instructions, voice hoarse already.
They pushed forward again, urgency creeping into their play.
Hazard tried to force it this time, dribbling into traffic, only to be crowded out by Walker and Kanté working in perfect sync. Pedro attempted a quick one-two with Fabregas, but Xhaka stepped in decisively, winning the ball cleanly and drawing a frustrated shout from the crowd.
Arsenal didn't rush the counter.
They slowed it down.
Controlled it.
Xhaka played square. Kanté recycled. Özil drifted, pointing, repositioning teammates with subtle gestures.
This was composure.
Chelsea grew impatient.
Alonso sent in an early cross that Van Dijk dealt with easily, rising above Costa without breaking stride. Koscielny swept up the second ball, calm as ever.
Another Chelsea attack fizzled out.
The home crowd began to murmur.
Francesco felt it.
That shift.
The moment when belief wavered.
He dropped deeper again, pulling Cahill with him, opening space wide. Iwobi sensed it instantly, darting forward with confidence, demanding the ball.
Özil obliged.
Iwobi took on Azpilicueta, quick feet dancing, forcing him back. He feinted right, then left, slipping past just enough to open a passing lane.
Walcott was already sprinting into the box.
Iwobi didn't hesitate.
The pass was crisp, angled perfectly across the face of goal.
Walcott met it first time.
No theatrics.
Just pace.
Just placement.
Courtois dived, but it was too quick, too clean.
The ball nestled into the far corner.
37th minute.
2–0 Arsenal.
This time, the silence was heavier.
The kind that pressed down on shoulders.
Walcott slid on his knees toward the corner flag, fists clenched, face split with a grin that mixed relief and triumph. Iwobi chased him down, shouting, arms around his shoulders. Francesco arrived a second later, wrapping them both up, shouting something fierce and joyful.
The bench erupted.
Wenger stood, clapping steadily, expression calm but eyes bright.
Chelsea looked stunned.
Cahill stood with hands on hips, staring at the grass. Luiz ran a hand through his hair, muttering. Fabregas turned away, jaw tight.
Arsenal regrouped quickly.
Francesco gathered the team.
"Same way," he said. "Nothing changes."
They nodded.
The rest of the half played out with Arsenal in control.
Chelsea had moments from Hazard flashing a shot wide, Costa forcing Cech into a sharp save but nothing sustained. Every threat met resistance. Every attack slowed, redirected, neutralized.
Walker remained immense, denying Hazard again and again. Monreal stayed flawless. Van Dijk and Koscielny were unshakeable. In midfield, Kanté ran like the game belonged to him, Xhaka distributed with authority, Özil orchestrated with quiet brilliance.
Francesco continued to battle, pressing, holding up play, dragging defenders out of position even when the ball didn't come.
When the referee finally blew for halftime, the relief in the stands was unmistakable.
Arsenal jogged toward the tunnel together, focused, composed.
Inside the dressing room, the door closed, shutting out the noise.
Wenger spoke calmly, reinforcing discipline, urging focus.
"This is not finished," he said. "They will come harder. Stay compact. Stay brave."
Francesco listened, breathing steady, sweat cooling on his skin.
He looked around the room.
At the faces.
At the belief.
Chelsea away.
Two goals up.
But nothing was won yet.
Not until the final whistle.
The second half didn't wait for anyone to settle.
There was no gentle re-entry into the rhythm of the match, no cautious feeling-out period the way there sometimes was when a team led by two goals away from home. Chelsea came out of the tunnel like a side that had spent fifteen minutes being reminded who they were supposed to be.
The whistle blew.
And immediately, the pace jumped.
Chelsea pushed their defensive line ten yards higher. Fabregas stopped lingering and started demanding the ball with sharper gestures. Matić stepped forward with more aggression. Hazard no longer drifted as he attacked.
Arsenal barely had time to register the shift before the danger arrived.
It started with a turnover that felt harmless at first.
Xhaka attempted to recycle possession back toward Van Dijk, but Fabregas anticipated it, stepping in just enough to nick the ball sideways. The stadium reacted instantly, a sudden roar surging up as blue shirts exploded forward.
Fabregas didn't hesitate.
One touch.
Then a perfectly weighted pass slipped between Arsenal's midfield line and back four.
Hazard was already moving.
Walker reacted quickly, turning and sprinting, but Hazard had that half-step advantage, the kind born from instinct rather than speed alone. He drove into the space, ball glued to his foot, Van Dijk stepping across to contain while Koscielny dropped to cover Costa.
For a split second, Arsenal's shape fractured.
Hazard saw it.
He cut inside, opening his body, drawing Van Dijk just enough to freeze him.
Then he struck.
Low.
Across goal.
Cech stretched, fingertips brushing air, but the ball slid past him and kissed the inside of the far post.
52nd minute.
The net rippled.
Stamford Bridge erupted.
The noise was immediate, visceral, the kind that didn't just fill your ears but pressed against your chest. Blue shirts spilled forward in celebration. Hazard turned toward the crowd, arms spread, face alight with fire.
1–2.
Francesco stood near the center circle, hands on hips, breathing slow.
He didn't shout.
Didn't wave his arms.
He simply looked around.
At Walker, who nodded once in apology but also resolve.
At Van Dijk, jaw set, eyes already refocusing.
At Kanté, clapping sharply, urging calm.
This was the moment Wenger had warned them about.
Chelsea belief.
The danger period.
Chelsea surged again after the restart, sensing vulnerability. Costa bullied his way into another duel, forcing Koscielny to concede a throw deep in Arsenal territory. Willian began warming up on the touchline, energy already crackling through the home side.
For five minutes, Arsenal were forced back.
Hazard took another shot from distance, this one sailing over the bar but close enough to draw gasps. Alonso whipped in a cross that Van Dijk headed clear under pressure. Pedro drifted inside again, testing Monreal's concentration.
Francesco dropped deeper, pressing Fabregas, making himself a nuisance, trying to slow the tempo any way he could.
He caught Özil's eye.
A small gesture.
Slow it.
Özil nodded.
Arsenal began to breathe again.
Kanté intercepted a loose pass, driving forward before releasing it to Xhaka, who took a touch, then another, deliberately calming the moment. The ball moved side to side. The crowd's roar dipped, frustration creeping back in.
Chelsea still pressed, but Arsenal had weathered the initial storm.
Then, quietly, almost imperceptibly, the game tilted again.
It started with Özil finding space.
As Chelsea pushed higher, gaps opened between their midfield and defense. Fabregas stepped forward to press, Matić followed, and for just a moment, no one tracked Özil's movement into the pocket behind them.
Xhaka saw it instantly.
The pass fizzed in.
Özil took it on the half-turn, already scanning.
Francesco was on the move.
He curved his run perfectly, dragging Cahill slightly wide, forcing David Luiz to step across. That was all Özil needed.
The pass came through like it had been threaded by thought alone.
Perfect weight.
Perfect timing.
Francesco met it in stride.
Courtois rushed out, arms wide, trying to close the angle.
Francesco didn't panic.
He took one touch to his right, just enough to shift the keeper's weight, then lifted the ball delicately, guiding it over Courtois' outstretched glove.
Time slowed again.
The ball dropped.
Net.
60th minute.
3-1 for Arsenal.
The away end exploded.
This time, the sound was red, defiant, cutting through the blue like a blade. Francesco turned and sprinted toward the corner, fists clenched, a roar tearing out of him before he could stop it.
Brace.
Statement.
Özil arrived first, wrapping him in a quick embrace, whispering something only they would hear. Kanté followed, then Walker, then Xhaka, arms around shoulders, shouts overlapping.
Chelsea players stood frozen.
Cahill stared at the turf.
Luiz kicked the grass in frustration.
Fabregas raised his hands, arguing with someone or anyone.
Francesco jogged back toward the center circle, breathing hard now, adrenaline surging. He glanced toward the touchline.
Wenger stood there, hands in his coat pockets, face calm.
But his eyes met Francesco's.
And he nodded.
Just once.
The goal changed everything.
Chelsea's momentum shattered instantly, their urgency twisting into desperation. They pressed higher, left more space, began forcing passes that weren't there.
And Wenger saw his moment.
At the 65th minute mark, the fourth official raised the board.
Three numbers appeared.
Francesco saw it as he jogged toward the touchline.
His number.
Walcott's.
Özil's.
He slowed, absorbing it.
No frustration.
No disappointment.
Just understanding.
This was management.
Francesco handed the armband to Xhaka without ceremony, clasped his shoulder once, then jogged off, applause ringing in his ears that not just from the away end, but scattered claps even from neutral corners of the stadium, respect cutting through rivalry.
As he reached the bench, Wenger placed a hand briefly on his back.
"Very good," he said simply.
Francesco nodded, breath still heavy, heart still racing.
Giroud stepped on in his place, imposing immediately, chest out, ready to occupy defenders. Gnabry replaced Walcott, youthful energy injected into the right side. Cazorla came on for Özil, calm, composed, a metronome for the final phase.
Across the pitch, Antonio Conte reacted instantly.
Pedro and Moses were withdrawn.
Willian came on, direct and dangerous.
Zouma followed, shoring up the back, adding physicality as Chelsea shifted shape, clearly preparing to throw everything forward.
The final twenty-five minutes loomed.
Francesco sat on the bench now, towel around his neck, watching intently, every nerve still plugged into the game. He leaned forward instinctively with every Arsenal touch, jaw tightening with every Chelsea advance.
The game did not settle after the substitutions.
If anything, it fractured.
Chelsea had nothing left to protect now. Pride, anger, desperation as those were the currencies they were trading in. Conte prowled the touchline, shouting instructions in sharp bursts, arms slicing the air. Willian's introduction changed the rhythm immediately, his touches quicker, more vertical, his intent unmistakable.
Arsenal felt it.
Not as panic, but as pressure.
The ball stopped lingering in harmless areas. Chelsea pushed bodies forward, Alonso and Azpilicueta now operating more like wingers than fullbacks, Zouma stepping into midfield to add physicality, Fabregas sitting deeper to spray passes without restraint.
From the bench, Francesco could feel the tension rise again.
This was the phase where matches at Stamford Bridge turned ugly.
Where two-goal leads dissolved.
Where belief flipped.
The 70th minute passed, then the 75th. Chelsea circled, Arsenal absorbed. Giroud battled relentlessly up front, his presence immediately changing how Chelsea defended as Cahill and Luiz now occupied with wrestling him rather than stepping out freely. Cazorla touched the ball constantly, calm under pressure, offering angles, slowing chaos with every short, intelligent pass.
But Chelsea were relentless.
Willian skipped past Monreal once, delivering a dangerous cross that flashed across the six-yard box. Van Dijk cleared with authority, sending the ball high and wide, buying precious seconds. The crowd roared again, sensing something.
Then it came.
78th minute.
The move built down Chelsea's left.
Hazard drifted centrally, dragging Walker inside just enough to open space. Alonso surged forward, untracked for a split second as Arsenal's midfield shifted toward the ball. Fabregas spotted it instantly.
The pass arced high and precise.
Alonso didn't hesitate.
He struck it first time.
A clean, vicious volley that flew past Cech before he could set his feet, crashing into the roof of the net.
2–3.
Stamford Bridge exploded again.
This time, the sound carried belief.
Players in blue sprinted back toward the center circle, grabbing the ball, urging speed. Conte pumped his fists, shouting toward the stands. The home crowd found its voice again, louder, more desperate, more alive.
From the bench, Francesco stood up instinctively, hands clenched at his sides.
Here it was.
The real test.
Arsenal gathered themselves quickly. Xhaka clapped his hands, shouting instructions. Van Dijk raised an arm, organizing the line. Cazorla moved closer to Kanté, forming a tighter triangle in midfield.
Chelsea threw everything forward.
Willian danced along the right, firing in another cross. Zouma powered forward for a header that flew just wide. Costa battled relentlessly, drawing a foul near the corner flag that brought another wave of noise.
Francesco paced near the technical area, unable to sit now.
This was agony.
This was football.
Minutes bled away slowly.
82.
83.
84.
Chelsea pressed higher, leaving space behind, but Arsenal were cautious now, unwilling to gamble too early. Giroud held the ball up whenever possible, buying fouls, drawing breath.
Then Cazorla began to impose himself.
It started with a simple touch with receiving under pressure, rolling away from Fabregas, keeping the ball with that familiar elegance that felt almost defiant in its calmness. The next time, he drew a foul. The time after that, he slipped a pass through to Gnabry, who immediately forced Azpilicueta backward.
Chelsea hesitated.
Just for a second.
And Arsenal took it.
87th minute.
Kanté won a tackle in midfield, nicking the ball cleanly off Matić. The ball spilled loose, and Cazorla was there, already turning, already seeing the picture before it fully formed.
Giroud peeled away from Cahill, planting himself between the center-backs, arms out, demanding the ball.
Cazorla delivered it perfectly.
Soft.
Measured.
Giroud controlled it with his chest, letting it drop just enough to strike. Luiz lunged late. Cahill tried to recover.
Too late.
Giroud smashed it low into the corner.
4–2.
For half a second, the stadium froze.
Then the away end erupted into chaos.
Red shirts leapt. Arms flew into the air. Giroud wheeled away, roaring, fists pounding his chest. Cazorla sprinted toward him, grinning, pointing, the entire Arsenal bench spilling onto the touchline in celebration.
Francesco exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes, hands on his head, disbelief and relief mixing in equal measure.
That was the killer.
Chelsea knew it too.
You could see it in their shoulders. In the way Fabregas slowed to a walk. In the way Cahill glanced at the clock rather than at his teammates.
But Arsenal weren't finished.
Not tonight.
Chelsea pushed forward one last time, but their urgency had turned reckless now. Zouma surged forward again, leaving space behind him. Willian attempted a hopeful dribble that ran into Kanté's wall-like presence.
The ball broke free.
Cazorla collected it again.
And this time, he didn't slow it.
He released Gnabry instantly.
Gnabry took off.
The space in front of him was vast as Chelsea's back line stretched thin, legs heavy, minds tired. Azpilicueta chased desperately. Zouma tried to recover from too far out of position.
Gnabry didn't look back.
He drove forward with pace, cutting inside, then outside, feet a blur, confidence pouring through him. One defender lunged that he skipped past. Another stepped up as he dropped a shoulder and exploded into the gap.
Stamford Bridge held its breath.
Gnabry reached the edge of the box, lifted his head for just a fraction of a second, then unleashed it.
The shot curled beautifully, arcing away from Courtois' fingertips, kissing the far corner of the net.
90+3.
5–2.
Pandemonium.
The away end lost itself completely now, bouncing, singing, disbelief turning into euphoria. Gnabry slid on his knees, arms outstretched, teammates piling on top of him.
Francesco laughed out loud, a raw, unfiltered sound ripped from deep in his chest. He clapped hard, shouting something incoherent toward the pitch, eyes stinging slightly that not from emotion, he told himself, but from the cold night air.
Moments later, the referee raised the whistle.
And blew.
Full time.
Arsenal 5.
Chelsea 2.
At Stamford Bridge.
The noise fractured from boos from home supporters, thunderous celebration from the away end. Arsenal players embraced, hands on heads, some laughing, some simply standing still, absorbing what they had done.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (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: 32
Goal: 52
Assist: 2
MOTM: 6
POTM: 1
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