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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give the power stones on Skyrim!)
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He felt it settle again in his chest which not a pressure, but a purpose. One more match, one more night. And the chance to do something that would be spoken about long after all of them were gone.
The days that followed passed in a strange, suspended rhythm.
Not slow, not fast, just dense.
Every hour seemed filled with something: recovery sessions, light training, tactical meetings, media obligations that never fully went away, messages that kept coming even when phones were turned face-down. The Champions League final hovered in the distance like a fixed star, constant, unavoidable, but Wenger was careful not to let it dominate everything.
There was still work to finish at home.
There was still a league to crown.
The first stop came away at the bet365 Stadium.
Stoke City away was never gentle, no matter the table, no matter the context. The wind cut through the stands, the pitch narrow and loud, the crowd restless and physical in the way only Stoke could be.
From the opening whistle, Arsenal played with clarity.
Not reckless. Not indulgent.
Sharp.
Francesco led from the front, constantly moving, dragging defenders, opening lanes. Alexis buzzed down the left like he always did against Stoke that angry, direct, unafraid. Özil drifted between lines, finding pockets that Stoke's midfield couldn't quite close fast enough.
The first goal came early.
A move that started deep, Van Dijk stepping forward confidently, splitting two lines with a clean pass into Kanté. One touch, then out to Cazorla, who let it run across his body and slipped it into space.
Francesco was already there.
He took it in stride, one touch to set, second to finish low across the keeper.
No celebration. Just a raised hand, a nod toward the bench.
The second followed soon after.
Alexis this time, cutting inside from the left, skipping past one challenge, then another, before unleashing a fierce strike that kissed the inside of the post and rattled the net.
By the time Özil made it three with arriving late at the edge of the box to curl one delicately into the corner that made Stoke looked shell-shocked.
3–0 at halftime.
Wenger didn't linger on praise.
"Control," he said simply. "Finish it properly."
In the second half, Francesco was withdrawn to manage minutes. Giroud came on, and Stoke, stubborn as ever, pushed back with what they had.
Peter Crouch pulled one back with a looping header that inevitable, almost ritualistic.
But Giroud responded the only way he knew how.
Twice.
A powerful header from a corner. Then a clever near-post finish after peeling away from his marker.
5–1.
Professional. Ruthless. Done.
Sunderland at home was different.
Quieter, emotionally heavier in its own way. Sunderland were fighting for survival, but Arsenal had no intention of slowing.
From the first minute, they played like a team with momentum humming beneath every pass.
Francesco opened the scoring with a poacher's finish that following up after the keeper spilled Alexis' shot. Alexis then took over completely, scoring twice more, one with venom, one with finesse.
3–0.
Clean.
By the final whistle, it was done.
The league was theirs.
Now, 21 May 2017.
The day it would be crowned.
The team bus rolled through familiar streets, red everywhere. Flags hung from balconies. Scarves waved from windows. Fans lined the roads hours before kickoff, singing, chanting, banging on barriers as the bus passed.
Inside, the mood was calm.
Focused.
Francesco sat near the front, headphones around his neck but silent. He stared ahead, watching the stadium grow larger through the windshield.
The Emirates.
Tonight, it would be theirs.
The bus pulled into the underground bay, brakes hissing softly. The doors opened, and the familiar smell of concrete, grass, and anticipation flooded in.
One by one, the players stepped off.
Francesco was last.
He paused at the bottom of the steps, looking up toward the stadium bowl above him, invisible from here but deeply felt.
Then he moved.
The dressing room was already prepared, shirts laid out neatly, boots aligned beneath benches. The captain's armband rested atop Francesco's shirt, waiting.
They changed first into training kits, light and loose, then headed out to the pitch for warm-up.
The Emirates greeted them with a roar.
Even during warm-ups, the noise was relentless. Every touch applauded. Every sprint cheered. Francesco jogged lightly, stretching, passing, feeling the grass beneath his boots.
This was home.
After warming up, they returned inside.
The dressing room settled.
Wenger stood at the front.
"Tonight," he said calmly, "we play our game."
He turned to the board.
"4-3-3."
He pointed.
"Petr, in goal."
Then the back line.
"Andrew. Virgil. Laurent. Kyle."
The midfield.
"N'Golo holding. Mezut and Granit ahead."
The front three.
"Alexis left. Theo right. Francesco through the middle. Captain."
Francesco felt the armband placed firmly on his arm.
Wenger finished.
"Enjoy it," he said. "But earn it."
They stood.
One last huddle.
Hands in.
Then the tunnel.
The air changed instantly.
Everton stood beside them, blue and white, focused, professional. Phil Jagielka stood directly across from Francesco, expression calm, respectful.
They nodded at each other.
The referee stepped forward, signaling.
The tunnel doors opened.
Night air rushed in.
The Emirates exploded.
Noise crashed over them like a wall with songs, cheers, raw emotion pouring down from every tier.
They stepped out.
Lined up.
Shook hands with officials, then Everton players.
Cameras flashed.
Photos taken.
Then the captains met in the center circle.
The coin tossed.
Francesco called it.
Right.
The referee nodded.
"Arsenal kickoff."
Francesco turned, jogged back toward his position, heart steady, mind clear.
This was it.
The day they would be crowned.
The day they would take another step toward something even bigger.
He looked around once more at the stands, at his teammates, at the badge on his chest.
Then he placed his boot on the ball, preparing for the kick off.
The whistle cut clean through the noise.
And just like that, the season's last league night truly began.
Francesco nudged the ball forward with the sole of his boot, a simple touch, barely a meter, but it carried weight. Xhaka received it immediately, dropping his shoulder, recycling possession back toward Kanté as Arsenal settled into shape.
Everton didn't wait.
They stepped up aggressively, exactly as expected.
Ronald Koeman had sent them out in a 4-3-3 that leaned forward, not back. Romelu Lukaku planted himself between Van Dijk and Koscielny like an immovable object, shoulders squared, already barking instructions, already demanding service. On either side, Kevin Mirallas and Enner Valencia stayed high and wide, stretching the pitch, forcing Arsenal's fullbacks to make early decisions.
From the first minute, the intent was clear.
Everton weren't here to admire the occasion.
They were here to spoil it.
The opening exchanges were frantic, charged by atmosphere as much as tactics. Every Everton touch was met with whistles. Every Arsenal pass was cheered. The Emirates hummed with nervous energy, not celebration yet, but anticipation.
Petr Čech was called into action early.
A long diagonal from Jagielka found Mirallas peeling off Walker's shoulder. The Belgian took it on his chest, drove inside, and unleashed a low shot toward the near post. Čech dropped quickly, palms strong, pushing it wide as Lukaku charged the rebound.
Van Dijk cleared decisively.
Francesco jogged back toward the center circle, clapping his hands once, sharply.
"Settle," he called. "Our rhythm."
In midfield, the battle took shape.
Gareth Barry's on the bench meant Everton relied heavily on the trio of Tom Davies, Idrissa Gueye, and Morgan Schneiderlin. Davies pressed with youthful intensity, snapping at Özil's heels. Gueye covered ground relentlessly, shadowing Kanté step for step. Schneiderlin sat deeper, screening passes, breaking up play whenever Arsenal tried to accelerate.
Özil drifted as always, floating between lines, sometimes disappearing entirely, only to reappear where least expected. Kanté buzzed around him, intercepting, recovering, offering angles. Xhaka stayed disciplined, shuttling possession side to side, looking to switch quickly when Everton's press tilted too far one way.
Up front, Francesco led the line with patience.
He didn't sprint blindly. He waited. He curved his runs, dragged Williams and Jagielka just a half-step out of position, creating pockets for Alexis and Walcott to attack.
Alexis was electric from the first touch.
Every time he received the ball on the left, Baines backed off just enough to be dangerous. Alexis cut inside once, twice, testing Holgate's positioning, forcing Everton's back line to shuffle constantly.
On the right, Walcott stayed wide, boots glued to the chalk, ready to explode into space the moment a gap appeared.
The game swung end to end.
Everton attacked with directness with early balls into Lukaku, quick overlaps from Valencia, shots from distance when space opened. Arsenal responded with control, circulation, patience.
The Emirates breathed with them.
At seventeen minutes, it finally broke.
The move started innocently enough.
Čech rolled the ball short to Van Dijk, who took a touch forward, head up. Everton stepped toward him, Mirallas closing fast. Van Dijk didn't force it. He slid the pass inside to Kanté, who cushioned it first time into Özil's path.
And suddenly, space.
Özil turned.
Just enough.
Davies lunged, half a second late. Schneiderlin hesitated, unsure whether to step or hold. In that sliver of indecision, Özil saw it.
Francesco had already started his run.
Not straight. Diagonal. Between Jagielka and Williams.
Özil threaded the pass with surgical precision, weight perfect, angle cruel.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch to open his body.
Second touch that guided, controlled, ruthless went low past Robles' outstretched arm, inside the far post.
The net rippled.
For half a second, there was silence.
Then the Emirates erupted.
Noise poured down like a physical force, shaking the air, rattling bones. Francesco turned, arms spreading instinctively, before being engulfed by red shirts.
Alexis was first, leaping onto his back.
"Vamos!" he shouted into Francesco's ear.
Walcott followed, then Özil, smiling that quiet, knowing smile.
Francesco pointed once to Özil as they broke away.
That was for you.
1–0.
Everton didn't fold.
If anything, they pushed harder.
Lukaku dropped deeper, trying to pull Van Dijk with him. Valencia surged forward repeatedly, forcing Robertson to track back. Mirallas began drifting inside, testing Walker's positioning.
At twenty-five minutes, Arsenal struck again.
This time, it was speed.
Kanté intercepted a loose pass from Schneiderlin and immediately fed Francesco, who had dropped into the right half-space. Francesco took it on the turn, drawing Jagielka toward him, then slipped a perfectly weighted pass into the channel.
Walcott was already gone.
He burst past Baines, took the ball in stride, and finished with trademark simplicity that low, across Robles, into the far corner.
2–0.
The Emirates roared again, louder, freer now.
Walcott slid on his knees toward the corner flag, fists clenched, face alight. Francesco jogged over, pulling him up by the shoulders.
"That's it," Francesco said. "That's it."
For a moment, it felt like the night might run away from Everton entirely.
But football rarely follows scripts.
Everton steadied themselves, slowed the tempo where they could, kept probing. Lukaku began winning his duels, using his strength to bring others into play. Davies grew braver, stepping higher, forcing mistakes.
As the first half edged toward its end, Arsenal dropped just a fraction deeper that not retreating, but managing.
And in the first minute of stoppage time, Everton found their opening.
It came from the right.
Valencia surged forward again, overlapping relentlessly. Walker stayed with Mirallas, leaving space. Mirallas spotted it instantly and slipped the ball down the line.
Valencia crossed early.
Low. Hard.
Lukaku anticipated it perfectly.
He darted across Van Dijk's front, just enough to get goal-side, and met the ball with a powerful first-time finish. Čech got a hand to it, but the force carried it over the line.
2–1.
The away end exploded.
Lukaku turned, fists pumping, shouting toward the traveling Everton supporters. For the first time all night, the Emirates went quiet that not stunned, but wary.
The whistle blew moments later.
Halftime.
The players walked off under a mixed soundtrack with applause, encouragement, tension.
Inside the dressing room, the noise of the stadium faded, replaced by the hum of ventilation and the clatter of boots on tile.
Wenger waited until everyone was seated.
He didn't raise his voice.
He never needed to.
"Good," he said first. "Very good."
A pause.
"But not finished."
He walked slowly in front of them.
"They believe now," he continued. "You gave them belief. That is normal. We respond by doing what we do best."
He tapped the board.
"Control. Patience. No panic."
He looked directly at Francesco.
"Lead the press. Not too high. Not too low."
Then at the midfield.
"N'Golo, balance. When they comes in, we slow it."
They nodded.
"This is our night," Wenger finished. "But we must take it."
Francesco stood, clapped his hands once.
"Together," he said simply.
They rose as the second half was coming.
The second half didn't begin with a roar.
It began with intent.
Everton emerged first, shoulders squared, expressions reset. Koeman had clearly spoken to them not in panic, not in anger, but with calculation. The message was visible immediately in their shape. The 4-3-3 stayed on paper, but in practice it tightened, compressed, folding in on itself the moment Arsenal touched the ball.
Arsenal kicked off again, but the rhythm was different now.
Everton sat five yards deeper. Mirallas and Valencia tracked back quicker, almost level with their fullbacks when Arsenal built from the back. Lukaku stayed high, alone but purposeful, the constant outlet, the threat that kept Van Dijk and Koscielny honest.
The Emirates sensed it too.
The noise didn't drop, but it sharpened. Less celebration, more encouragement. Every tackle was cheered. Every interception applauded like a goal.
Koeman wanted the game narrowed.
And for ten minutes, Everton managed it.
They didn't press wildly. They waited. They let Arsenal have the ball in safe areas, then sprang forward the moment a pass went loose. Gueye snapped into challenges, Schneiderlin blocked lanes.
The first real warning came in the 49th minute.
A misplaced pass from Xhaka was pounced on by Davies. One touch out to Mirallas, who turned and drove. Lukaku peeled wide, dragging Koscielny with him, creating space at the top of the box.
Mirallas shot.
Čech reacted instantly, throwing himself low, pushing the ball away with strong wrists. Lukaku lunged for the rebound, but Van Dijk arrived like a door slamming shut, clearing with authority.
Francesco jogged back again, clapping his hands, voice cutting through.
"Compact. Together."
He could feel it.
The game was leaning toward a moment.
Arsenal needed to seize it before Everton believed too much.
They slowed it deliberately.
Kanté took control, recycling possession, breaking Everton's rhythm by refusing to be rushed. Cazorla dropped deeper to help, offering an extra angle, a pause button. Özil drifted wider, pulling Davies out of position, teasing space into existence.
Minutes passed.
Everton countered, but Arsenal absorbed it.
Then, just past the hour, the match cracked open.
It began on the left.
Robertson received the ball near the halfway line, unpressured for once. Valencia hesitated, step or hold? That half-second was enough.
Robertson drove forward.
Alexis darted inside, dragging Baines with him. That movement opened the channel, and Robertson surged into it, boots chewing up turf, head up.
Francesco saw it instantly.
He didn't sprint.
He waited.
He let Jagielka glance toward the ball. He let Williams shift his weight. Then he moved with sharp, decisive, across the near post.
Robertson didn't overthink it.
He whipped the cross in early, flat and vicious, skimming the grass just enough to make it awkward.
Francesco met it first time.
No touch to settle. No hesitation.
Just instinct.
His right foot snapped through the ball, redirecting it past Robles before the keeper could set his feet.
The net bulged.
3–1.
The Emirates detonated.
This time, it wasn't just noise. It was release.
Francesco turned, fists clenched, chest heaving, and for the first time all night he let himself feel it fully. He slid to his knees, grass burning through the fabric, arms wide as red shirts swarmed him.
Alexis screamed something incoherent.
Özil smiled, pointing.
Robertson arrived last, breathless, eyes wide.
"Thank you," Francesco said simply, gripping his shoulder.
Robertson just shook his head, laughing. "Anytime."
The goal broke Everton's resistance.
Not completely, but enough.
Koeman reacted immediately.
On the touchline, he signaled, sharp and urgent.
Ross Barkley rose from the bench.
Tom Davies trudged off moments later, applauded by the away end, frustration etched across his young face. Barkley came on with energy, demanding the ball, trying to drive Everton forward again.
But the moment had passed.
And then came the change that shifted the night into something deeper.
At sixty-three minutes, Wenger turned.
He raised his hand.
Two substitutions.
Theo Walcott's number flashed first.
Then Virgil van Dijk's.
A ripple passed through the stadium that not confusion, but recognition.
Gnabry stood, pulling his shirt on.
Per Mertesacker rose beside him.
And the Emirates understood.
Van Dijk walked off to a standing ovation, clapping the crowd, nodding toward Wenger.
Walcott followed, pointing to the badge, soaking it in.
Then Mertesacker stepped onto the pitch.
Tall. Composed. Familiar.
Francesco jogged toward him immediately.
Without ceremony, without words, he slipped the captain's armband from his own arm and placed it around Per's.
Their eyes met.
"Thank you," Francesco said quietly.
Per swallowed, nodded once. "Let's finish."
It was his last match at the Emirates.
And the stadium knew it.
The applause that greeted him wasn't loud, but it was deep. Respectful. Grateful. A sound built from memory as much as presence.
Everton restarted, but the energy had changed completely now.
Arsenal played with control bordering on serenity.
Kanté screened tirelessly. Xhaka dictated tempo. Cazorla calmed everything he touched. Gnabry added fresh legs, directness, joy.
Mertesacker organized from the back, voice carrying, positioning immaculate, turning back the clock with every step.
Everton tried. Barkley drove forward. Lukaku battled. Mirallas flashed one effort wide.
The game had slipped into something else now.
Not a contest, not really that not in the way it had been in the first half, or even at the start of the second. It had become a procession with purpose, every pass carrying intention, every movement layered with meaning. The Emirates could feel it. You could hear it in the way the crowd sang now that not sharp, not pleading, but rolling and warm, like a tide that knew exactly where it was headed.
Everton were still trying.
That mattered.
Lukaku never stopped battling. Barkley kept demanding the ball, driving forward with that long stride, trying to force something to happen. Barry, when he came on, barked instructions, tried to slow Arsenal down, tried to bring order. Kone made runs across the line, testing space, hoping for a mistake.
But Arsenal didn't give them one.
They moved as a unit now, a team fully aware of the moment they were living inside.
Every time Everton pushed forward, they ran into a wall of red shirts that shifted and adjusted without panic. Kanté was everywhere with sliding in to nick possession, popping up to offer an outlet, retreating again to block passing lanes. Xhaka controlled the tempo with authority, slowing the game when it needed breath, quickening it when space opened. Cazorla, tireless and elegant, played like a man savoring every touch, every turn, every small cheer that followed.
And at the back, Per Mertesacker was immense.
Not fast, but never late.
He positioned himself perfectly, reading the game two steps ahead, arms outstretched, voice booming across the pitch.
"Step. Hold. Again."
It was like watching muscle memory made flesh. Years of experience distilled into ninety minutes.
Francesco glanced back at him more than once, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth.
This mattered.
Then came the corner.
Sixty-nine minutes on the clock.
This corner came from the right.
Özil stood over it.
The stadium buzzed that not just noise, but anticipation sharpened by understanding. They could feel it building, the sense that something special was about to happen.
Inside the box, Arsenal lined up.
As Van Dijk gone now, Mertesacker who come on for him became the most threat for Everton. Koscielny stood near the penalty spot. Giroud wasn't on yet. Francesco hovered just outside the six-yard box, ready for rebounds.
And Mertesacker?
He stood tall at the far post, towering over Holgate, eyes fixed, jaw set.
Özil raised his arm.
The delivery was perfect.
Not whipped. Not floated.
Measured.
The ball arced toward the far post, dropping just enough, just late enough.
Mertesacker timed his run impeccably.
He rose.
For a split second, it felt like the world paused.
Then his forehead met the ball with a sound that carried a clean, satisfying thud.
Robles reacted, diving, stretching, but it was futile.
The ball crashed into the net.
4–1.
The Emirates lost its mind.
Not just cheering, but screaming.
Pure, unfiltered joy poured from every corner of the stadium. Grown men leapt into the air. Strangers hugged. Scarves spun overhead like propellers. Tears appeared, unashamed.
Mertesacker turned slowly, almost disbelieving.
Then he smiled.
A wide, boyish smile that transformed his face completely.
His teammates mobbed him instantly.
Francesco was there first, wrapping him in a fierce embrace.
"You did it," he said into his ear. "You really did it."
Per laughed, shaking his head, eyes glassy.
"At home," he said. "I scored at home."
The chant began almost immediately.
"PER—MER—TES—ACK—ER!"
It rolled and rolled, swelling with every repetition, a song built from gratitude and history. Wenger stood on the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, blinking rapidly, lips pressed together.
He knew.
Everyone knew.
This was goodbye.
Play resumed eventually, because football always does but the atmosphere had shifted entirely into celebration now.
Everton fought on, but the resistance was symbolic at best.
At seventy-seven minutes, Wenger made another change.
Alexis Sánchez's number went up.
The Chilean jogged off to a thunderous ovation, pounding the badge, applauding all four sides of the stadium. He looked drained, sweat-soaked, but satisfied.
Giroud replaced him.
Wenger leaned in as the striker passed.
"Central," he said. "Francesco left."
Francesco nodded when he heard it.
He drifted wide, taking Alexis' place, feeling the game from a different angle now. It suited him. He could see everything unfold, could pick his moments.
Koeman responded quickly.
Gueye came off, legs heavy from chasing shadows all night. Enner Valencia followed him. Barry and Kone came on, fresh legs, fresh ideas, but the shape was already set.
Arsenal were managing now.
Enjoying it.
The crowd sang louder with every minute that ticked away.
At eighty-four minutes, they were rewarded again.
It began with Xhaka.
He collected the ball deep, unpressured for once, and lifted his head. Everton's lines were stretched now, focus dulled by inevitability.
Giroud made his move.
A sharp dart across Williams' shoulder, just enough separation.
Xhaka threaded the pass with confidence, splitting the center-backs cleanly.
Giroud took it in stride.
One touch to steady.
Second to finish.
Low. Powerful. Unstoppable.
5–1.
The Emirates erupted again, laughter mixing with cheers now, disbelief giving way fully to joy.
Giroud wheeled away, punching the air, beard glistening under the floodlights. Francesco jogged over, clapping, pointing at him.
"Always," Francesco said.
Giroud grinned. "Always."
From there, the match drifted.
Everton kept possession for spells, but the urgency was gone. Arsenal players began exchanging glances, counting seconds without needing to look at the clock.
The crowd did it for them.
Every pass drew applause. Every tackle earned a roar. Every clearance was cheered like a goal.
Mertesacker won one final header, nodding it calmly to Koscielny, and the noise that followed felt like a standing ovation frozen in time.
As the clock ticked into stoppage time, Wenger stood at the edge of his technical area, arms folded now, face composed but eyes bright.
Francesco glanced toward the bench.
Three fingers raised.
Three titles.
Three in a row.
The referee checked his watch.
Then lifted the whistle.
And blew.
The sound didn't just end the match.
It unleashed everything.
The Emirates exploded into noise, into movement, into celebration that had been building all season and now finally had permission to exist fully. Players dropped to their knees. Others threw their arms around whoever was closest. Staff spilled onto the pitch.
Francesco stood still for a moment, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling as he took it in.
5–1.
Premier League Champions.
Again.
Three times in a row.
Two of them unbeaten.
Invincible.
History, written not in one night, but across months of consistency, resilience, belief.
Per Mertesacker stood near the center circle, hands on his head, overwhelmed. Francesco walked toward him slowly, then pulled him into another embrace.
"This is yours," Francesco said. "Forever."
Per nodded, unable to speak.
The trophy presentation loomed. Medals would follow. Photos, interviews, confetti.
But for now, in this moment, under these lights, surrounded by this noise, it was enough just to stand there as champions again.
______________________________________________
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: 53
Goal: 84
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 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