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The bus continued through Cardiff, edging closer to the hotel where the final preparations would begin.
The team bus rolled slowly through the final stretch of Cardiff, the glow of streetlights reflecting off the windows as the hotel came into view.
It wasn't loud here like it had been in the city center. The noise was held back by barriers and security lines, but even then you could still hear it from chants drifting through the air, flags waving in clusters, fans catching just a glimpse of the bus as it pulled into the private entrance.
Inside, the mood was calm.
Focused.
No one was shouting anymore. No one was replaying jokes or moments.
The closer they got to the hotel, the quieter it became.
Francesco slipped his phone back into his pocket after ending the call with Leah. He took a slow breath, looking down at his hands for a moment before lifting his gaze again.
This was it.
The final stage before the final match.
The bus stopped.
The doors opened.
One by one, they stepped down onto the pavement, greeted by hotel staff and security who quickly ushered them inside through a controlled entrance. The lobby had been partially closed to the public, but even then, a handful of fans had managed to position themselves in view from outside the glass doors, pressing scarves and shirts up against the windows.
Francesco didn't stop, but he lifted a hand briefly in acknowledgment as he passed.
Inside, the air felt cool, controlled, almost still compared to the charged atmosphere outside.
Keys were distributed.
Room numbers quietly exchanged.
Wenger spoke briefly with the staff at the front desk before turning to the squad.
"Rest," he said. "We meet tomorrow."
No long speech.
No dramatic build-up.
Just that.
They understood.
This was the calm before the storm.
Francesco rode the elevator up with a few of the others with Kanté beside him, Ramsey leaning back against the wall, headphones around his neck.
No one spoke much.
Just small nods.
Small smiles.
When the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into a quiet hallway lined with identical doors and soft carpet that muffled their footsteps.
Francesco reached his room, slid the keycard in, and stepped inside.
The room was neat, spacious, comfortable.
A large bed.
A small table.
Curtains drawn back just enough to reveal the faint glow of Cardiff outside.
He set his bag down.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, he just stayed there, hands resting on his knees, shoulders rising and falling slowly as he breathed.
Then he leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
One more night.
Just one more.
He didn't turn on the television.
Didn't check social media.
Didn't replay highlights.
He let the quiet sit with him.
Eventually, he showered, changed into something comfortable, and lay down properly.
Sleep came easier than he expected.
Because his mind was clear.
Because his purpose was set.
Because everything they had worked for led to this.
The next day passed in a measured rhythm.
Light breakfast.
A short tactical walk-through.
Rest.
Hydration.
Quiet conversations.
Time passed differently on days like this.
Not rushed.
Not slow.
Just… deliberate.
Every minute counted.
Every movement intentional.
And then, as evening approached, it was time.
The players began to gather in the hotel lobby again, one by one, dressed in club suits, posture straight, faces focused.
There was no music.
No laughter.
Only quiet conversations and the soft sound of footsteps across the polished floor.
Francesco stepped into the lobby last, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket slightly as he joined the group.
Per gave him a small nod.
Ramsey offered a quick grin.
Kanté smiled softly.
Wenger stood near the entrance, speaking with the staff, then turning as the final players arrived.
"Gentlemen," he said.
That was all.
They moved.
Out through the doors.
Back onto the bus.
The engine hummed to life once more.
And as the bus pulled away from the hotel, the noise returned instantly.
This time louder than before.
This time heavier.
This time electric.
The streets of Cardiff were overflowing.
Red and white scarves waved high in clusters.
Black and white Juventus flags stretched across groups of Italian supporters singing in rhythm.
Neutral fans filled every gap in between, phones raised, capturing every second.
Police lined the route.
Barriers held back the crowds.
But the sound could not be contained.
It surged toward the bus from every direction.
Francesco looked out the window, taking it all in.
Children sitting on shoulders.
Families wrapped in flags.
Old fans with tears already in their eyes before the match had even begun.
This wasn't just a football match.
This was a moment.
Beside him, Ramsey tapped lightly on the glass as they passed a group of Welsh Arsenal supporters who were chanting his name specifically.
He laughed quietly, shaking his head.
Francesco allowed himself a small smile.
Then he looked forward again.
Focus.
The stadium came into view.
The Principality Stadium rose ahead of them, lights blazing against the evening sky, its structure towering over the city like a beacon.
The bus slowed.
Turned.
And finally came to a stop in the secured arrival zone.
The doors opened.
The noise hit them like a wave.
Even through the controlled area, the roar from outside the stadium walls was immense.
One by one, they stepped down.
Staff guided them quickly through the interior corridors, past security checkpoints, past signage, deeper into the structure.
The air inside was cooler, quieter, but the distant hum of the crowd was constant, vibrating faintly through the walls.
They reached the dressing room.
The door opened.
Inside, everything was prepared.
Shirts hung neatly at each locker.
Boots lined up.
Water bottles placed.
Tactical boards already set.
Francesco's eyes found his shirt immediately.
Number.
Name.
Captain's armband folded neatly beside it.
He took a slow breath.
Then began to change.
Training kit first.
Boots laced.
Shin guards adjusted.
The routine grounded him.
Always the same.
Always familiar.
When everyone was ready, they moved out together again, walking down the corridor that led toward the pitch.
As they stepped through the tunnel entrance, the sound exploded.
The stadium was alive.
Lights blazing.
Music thundering.
Fans roaring from every stand.
Francesco stepped onto the pitch and felt the energy hit his chest like a physical force.
He looked up.
Rows upon rows of supporters.
A sea of color.
Red and white to one side.
Black and white to the other.
Flags waving.
Scarves raised.
Chants rolling in waves around the stadium bowl.
They began their warm-up.
Passing drills.
Short sprints.
Shots on goal.
Each touch of the ball crisp.
Each movement sharp.
Francesco struck a few shots, the ball flying cleanly off his boot, the sound of it hitting the net echoing faintly beneath the roar of the crowd.
He didn't celebrate.
Just reset.
Focused.
Locked in.
When the warm-up ended, they gathered briefly in a tight circle on the pitch.
No speech yet.
Just eye contact.
Just understanding.
Then they turned and walked back toward the tunnel.
Back into the dressing room.
Back into the final stage of preparation.
Inside, the noise of the stadium dimmed again.
Shirts were pulled on.
Tape adjusted.
Boots relaced.
The room smelled of fresh kit and focus.
Wenger stood at the front, the tactical board behind him.
When everyone was seated, he began.
Calm.
Clear.
Precise.
"We play in a 4-3-3," he said.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
"Petr in goal."
Petr Čech
"Back four was Nacho Monreal, Virgil van Dijk, Laurent Koscielny, Héctor Bellerín."
"N'Golo Kanté holding."
"Granit Xhaka central. Mesut Özil advanced."
"Wide is Alexis Sánchez and Theo Walcott."
He looked directly at Francesco then.
"And up front, Francesco Lee. Captain."
The room was silent.
Focused.
Ready.
"The bench," Wenger continued, "Ospina, Mustafi, Mertesacker, Ramsey, Cazorla, Gnabry, Giroud."
Each name carried weight.
Each one ready if called.
Wenger finished with a final calm look around the room.
"Play with intelligence. Play with courage. Play together."
That was all.
No theatrics.
No raised voice.
Just belief.
They stood.
One by one.
Francesco picked up the armband and wrapped it around his arm, fastening it firmly.
He looked down at it for a second.
Then nodded to himself.
Time.
They walked down the corridor together.
Boots echoing.
Breathing steady.
The tunnel opened ahead.
Referees already waiting.
And beside them.
Juventus.
Black and white kits.
Calm faces.
Focused eyes.
At the front of their line stood their captain.
Gianluigi Buffon
Francesco stepped forward to the front of Arsenal's line, coming level with him.
They exchanged a brief look.
A small nod.
Respect.
The referee checked both lines.
Looked to his assistants.
Then raised his arm.
The signal.
Time to walk.
They stepped forward together.
Out of the tunnel.
Into the night.
The stadium lights blazed down.
The roar rose to its absolute peak.
The pitch stretched out before them like a stage.
Francesco felt the grass under his boots again.
Felt the energy surge through his body.
They lined up beside the referees at the center.
The Champions League anthem began.
The familiar, powerful notes filled the stadium, echoing around the stands, vibrating through the air.
Players stood tall.
Faces forward.
Eyes steady.
For a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
Just the music.
The moment.
The magnitude.
When the anthem ended, the players moved down the line.
Handshakes with the referees.
Handshakes with the Juventus players.
Respect on both sides.
Then the team photo.
The starting eleven lined up.
Cameras flashing.
Capturing the moment that would be remembered forever.
After that, Francesco and Buffon stepped forward toward the center circle.
The referee stood waiting.
Coin in hand.
He spoke briefly.
Instructions.
Confirmation.
Then the coin flipped into the air, spinning under the floodlights.
Buffon called it.
Chose his side.
Juventus would kick off.
They nodded.
Shook hands once more.
Then turned back toward their teams.
Both sides gathered into their own circles.
Red shirts forming one tight ring.
Black and white forming another.
Francesco stood in the center of his teammates.
He looked at each face.
Each pair of eyes.
Each player who had fought all season to get here.
He didn't need a long speech.
Just truth.
"Together," he said.
"From the first second to the last."
He glanced around once more.
"Everything we have."
Around him, heads nodded.
Hands came together.
A final breath.
Then they broke the circle.
Moved into position.
And waited for the whistle that would begin one of the biggest match of their lives.
The whistle cut clean through the noise.
For a split second, it felt like everything held its breath.
Then the ball rolled.
The Champions League Final had begun.
Juventus kicked off immediately, the black and white shirts moving with purpose, their shape already fluid as they pushed the ball forward from the center circle. Gonzalo Higuaín dropped slightly off the front line to receive, laying it back into the feet of Miralem Pjanić, who opened his body and sent it wide to Dani Alves on the right.
Arsenal's red shirts reacted instantly, sliding into their defensive shape as rehearsed.
Francesco jogged a few steps forward, then held his line, watching the first patterns unfold.
Feel the rhythm.
Understand the tempo.
The early seconds of a final always carried something different with something sharper, something heavier. Every pass had intent. Every touch carried weight.
Juventus came forward quickly, Mandžukić drifting in from the left wing, Alves pushing high on the right, the two of them flanking Higuaín and stretching Arsenal's defensive line from both sides.
Behind them, Paulo Dybala hovered between the lines, searching for pockets of space, while Pjanić and Sami Khedira anchored the midfield with calm control.
Arsenal answered with their own structure.
N'Golo Kanté sat just in front of the back four, alert, already tracking Dybala's movements with those tireless, reading eyes.
Granit Xhaka held slightly deeper, ready to receive and recycle.
Mesut Özil floated between spaces, always just out of reach, always scanning for the one pass that could unlock everything.
Out wide, Alexis Sánchez and Theo Walcott stretched the Juventus back line, ready to burst forward at the first opportunity.
And at the front, Francesco stood between Giorgio Chiellini and Leonardo Bonucci, feeling them both, reading them, testing their distance with small, subtle movements.
The opening minutes were tense, controlled, probing.
Juventus pressed first.
A long diagonal from Bonucci toward Mandžukić forced Héctor Bellerín to retreat quickly, the Croatian bringing the ball down on his chest before trying to drive inside. Laurent Koscielny stepped across immediately, body low, timing perfect, forcing Mandžukić to play it back.
Applause rippled through the Arsenal end.
Good.
Settled.
But Juventus didn't slow.
They recycled possession through Pjanić, then Khedira, then back to Dybala who turned quickly and threaded a pass toward Higuaín at the edge of the box. Virgil van Dijk stepped in front, reading it early, cutting it out with a firm clearance that drew a sharp cheer from the red and white side of the stadium.
Francesco clapped his hands once, voice carrying.
"Good! Stay tight!"
The game settled into a fierce rhythm.
Midfield became a battleground.
Özil, Kanté, and Xhaka against Dybala, Pjanić, and Khedira.
Every touch contested.
Every second ball fought for.
Kanté seemed to be everywhere at once—pressing Dybala from behind, then darting across to block a passing lane toward Pjanić, then dropping back to cover when Alves surged forward again.
Özil drifted intelligently, finding pockets, receiving under pressure, slipping passes out wide to Alexis and Walcott whenever he could find the angle.
Xhaka kept things ticking, his left foot pinging passes from side to side, controlling tempo, giving Arsenal moments to breathe.
At the back, Monreal, Van Dijk, Koscielny, and Bellerín held their line firm, communicating constantly, shifting as one unit against Juventus' wide overloads.
And up front, Francesco kept testing.
One run between Chiellini and Bonucci.
Another drifting toward the right channel to link with Walcott.
A quick drop into midfield to pull Barzagli forward before spinning back in behind.
Each movement a question.
Each run a threat.
The first real opening came from Juventus.
Minute 12.
Alves again down the right, his cross whipped in early this time, curling dangerously toward the near post. Higuaín attacked it, darting in front of Van Dijk and getting a glancing header that flashed toward goal.
Petr Čech moved in a flash.
A sharp step to his right, hands rising, pushing the ball away with strong wrists before it could dip under the bar.
The Juventus end roared in appreciation.
The Arsenal fans answered with a louder chant of their own.
Francesco jogged back toward the halfway line, glancing over his shoulder at Čech.
"Good save," he called.
Čech raised a glove briefly in acknowledgment.
Back to focus.
Back to shape.
Arsenal responded.
Minute 16.
Özil found space between the lines for the first time, taking the ball on the half-turn and immediately slipping a perfectly weighted pass into the left channel for Alexis. The Chilean accelerated, pushing the ball past Barzagli and driving toward the box before cutting inside and unleashing a low shot toward the far corner.
Buffon read it.
Of course he did.
He moved across his line smoothly, dropping low and gathering the ball cleanly into his chest.
The veteran captain rose calmly, holding the ball for a moment before distributing it quickly.
Respect between masters.
The game continued like that.
Back and forth.
Attack and response.
Each team testing.
Each team adjusting.
And then, at the 27th minute, everything shifted.
It began with patience.
Arsenal built from the back.
Van Dijk to Koscielny.
Koscielny into Xhaka.
Xhaka out wide to Bellerín.
Bellerín forward to Walcott.
Walcott held it for a second, drawing Alex Sandro in, then laid it back inside to Özil who had drifted into a pocket of space just outside the box.
Time slowed.
Özil lifted his head.
Francesco saw it instantly.
The smallest gap.
The half-yard between Bonucci and Chiellini as they adjusted their positioning.
He moved.
A sharp, explosive run diagonally across the line.
Özil's pass came at the exact same moment.
A delicate, perfectly weighted through ball, sliding between defenders, splitting the line.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch to set.
Buffon rushing out, narrowing the angle.
Second touch that low, precise, guided toward the far corner.
The net rippled.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then the Arsenal end exploded.
Francesco turned immediately, sprinting toward the corner flag, arms spreading wide as the roar crashed down from the stands.
1–0.
Arsenal had struck first.
Behind him, teammates rushed in.
Alexis first, leaping onto his back.
Walcott right behind.
Özil arriving with a grin that said everything.
Kanté jogged in, smiling, clapping.
Xhaka punched the air.
The bench erupted on the sideline.
Wenger stood composed, but his eyes shone with quiet satisfaction.
Francesco pulled away from the embrace after a moment, raising one hand to the fans, pointing toward them, then tapping his chest once.
Together.
They jogged back toward the center circle.
The job wasn't done.
Not even close.
Juventus responded with urgency.
They pushed forward again immediately, their midfield increasing the tempo, Dybala dropping deeper to receive more of the ball, Alves and Alex Sandro pushing even higher.
The pressure grew.
Mandžukić drove at Bellerín again, cutting inside this time and firing a shot that deflected off Koscielny and flew just wide of the post.
Corner.
The delivery came in, swirling dangerously.
Van Dijk rose highest, powering the header clear.
Kanté chased the second ball, winning it back under pressure from Khedira and quickly releasing it to Xhaka.
Transition.
Fast.
Xhaka looked up.
Saw Walcott already sprinting down the right.
A long diagonal pass.
Perfectly weighted.
Walcott controlled it at pace, driving toward the box with Alex Sandro scrambling to catch him.
Francesco sprinted through the middle.
Alexis matched him on the far side.
Walcott cut inside, drawing Bonucci toward him.
Then slipped the ball across the face of the box.
Alexis arrived.
One touch to set.
Second touch that struck low and hard past Buffon.
Net.
2–0.
The Arsenal end erupted again.
Alexis dropped to his knees, sliding across the grass, arms wide, shouting in pure joy.
Walcott reached him first, grabbing him in a tight embrace.
Francesco arrived a second later, wrapping an arm around both of them, laughing breathlessly.
Two goals.
Within minutes.
The dream start.
But Juventus were not done.
Not this team.
Not on this stage.
They came again.
Minute 38.
Another wave down the right.
Alves again, tireless, dangerous.
He found space and delivered a perfect cross into the box, curling it right onto Higuaín's head.
The striker connected cleanly.
A powerful header.
Goal-bound.
Čech reacted instinctively.
A reflex save of the highest level.
His arm shot up, palm meeting the ball and pushing it over the bar in a moment that drew gasps from all corners of the stadium.
Higuaín put his hands on his head in disbelief.
Čech rose slowly, composed as always.
Arsenal survived.
But Juventus were knocking harder now.
Minute 42.
It came.
A quick interchange between Dybala and Pjanić in midfield.
A pass into Higuaín's feet just outside the box.
He held off Koscielny, then turned and slipped a perfectly weighted pass out wide to Mandžukić, who had drifted into space.
Mandžukić took it first time.
A driven shot across goal.
Čech dived.
The ball slipped past his reach.
Into the net.
2–1.
The Juventus end exploded.
Mandžukić punched the air, roaring in celebration.
Higuaín ran to him, embracing him tightly.
The game was alive again.
Francesco stood near the center circle, hands on his hips for a second, breathing deeply.
Then he clapped once.
"Focus!" he shouted. "We go again!"
There were still minutes left in the half.
Both teams pushed.
Arsenal tried to regain control, slowing the tempo, passing through midfield, keeping possession where they could.
Juventus pressed aggressively, sensing momentum.
A late chance for Dybala forced another save from Čech.
A long-range strike from Xhaka flew just over the bar at the other end.
And then, finally, the whistle for halftime.
The first half of the Champions League Final ended 2–1 to Arsenal.
The players walked back toward the tunnel.
Some heads high.
Some expressions tight.
All of them focused.
Francesco walked beside Özil and Kanté, exchanging a few quiet words.
"Good movement," Özil said softly.
"We keep the ball better," Kanté added.
Francesco nodded.
"We finish it," he replied.
They stepped into the tunnel, the noise dimming slightly, replaced by the echo of boots against concrete.
Back into the dressing room.
Back into the quiet.
Shirts clung slightly with sweat.
Breathing heavy.
Water bottles grabbed.
Wenger stood at the front again, calm, composed.
He let them sit for a moment.
Let the noise settle.
Let the first half breathe out of them.
Then he began.
Clear.
Measured.
"We are ahead," he said. "But the game is not finished."
Eyes met his.
"They will come again," he continued. "We must be intelligent with the ball. Control the midfield. Do not give them easy transitions."
He pointed gently toward the board.
"Kanté, stay close to Dybala. Xhaka, support the back line when needed. Mesut, find the spaces when we win the ball."
He looked at Alexis and Walcott.
"Exploit the width. They are leaving space when they push."
Finally, his gaze settled on Francesco.
"Be ready. One chance can decide everything."
Francesco nodded slowly.
He understood.
They all did.
Wenger stepped back slightly.
"Play with courage. Stay together."
The room was silent.
Focused.
The dressing room stayed quiet for a few seconds after Arsène Wenger finished speaking.
Not the empty kind of silence.
The focused kind.
The kind where every player is already replaying their assignments in their head. Where every muscle feels tuned, waiting for the next whistle.
Francesco sat forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. He could still feel the rhythm of the first half in his chest. The bursts. The pressure. The moments that had decided everything so far.
Two–one.
Not safe.
Never safe.
He looked up, catching the eyes of a few teammates across the room.
N'Golo Kanté gave a small nod, calm as ever.
Mesut Özil leaned back in his seat, eyes thoughtful but relaxed, like he could already see the spaces that would appear in the next forty-five minutes.
Theo Walcott rolled his shoulders, shaking out the tension.
Across from them, Per Mertesacker sat with that familiar composed posture, already alert, already ready if called.
Francesco pushed himself up to his feet.
"Same again," he said simply.
"Sharper," Granit Xhaka added.
"Together," Alexis Sánchez said quietly.
That was enough.
No shouting.
No theatrics.
Just truth.
They clapped hands once, twice, a short collective beat of energy, and then they turned back toward the tunnel.
The noise grew again as they approached it, the sound of tens of thousands rising like a storm waiting to break.
When they stepped back out onto the pitch, the lights felt brighter than before.
The air felt sharper.
The stakes heavier.
Second half.
Juventus stood ready at the center circle, their formation slightly adjusted, their posture more aggressive, more urgent.
On the touchline, Massimiliano Allegri stood with his arms folded, watching everything with narrowed eyes.
He had given his instructions.
Push.
Attack.
Equalize.
The referee checked his watch.
The whistle blew.
And the second half began.
Juventus moved immediately, and this time there was no patience in their buildup.
The ball went straight forward, into midfield, into the feet of Dybala, who turned faster than before, sharper, driving at the Arsenal line with purpose.
Alves surged down the right again, overlapping hard.
Mandžukić stayed high on the left, pinning Bellerín back.
Higuaín hovered between Van Dijk and Koscielny, ready.
You could feel it instantly.
They were coming for the equalizer.
Kanté tracked Dybala tightly, never more than a step away, forcing him to release the ball earlier than he wanted.
Xhaka dropped slightly deeper now, helping screen the back four.
Özil pressed when he could, but his role shifted slightly, picking moments instead of chasing everything.
Arsenal were more compact.
More cautious.
But Juventus were relentless.
Minute 50.
A quick switch from left to right found Alves again in space. He whipped a low ball across the face of goal that flashed just inches beyond Higuaín's outstretched boot.
Minute 51.
Dybala cut inside Kanté for a split second and fired a shot from distance that Čech gathered cleanly, dropping low, smothering it safely.
Francesco felt it building.
The pressure.
The momentum shifting.
He clapped again, louder this time.
"Stay with it! Stay with it!"
But then, at minute 53, Juventus got what they were pushing for.
It started in midfield.
Khedira won a loose ball after a contested challenge with Xhaka and immediately fed it forward to Dybala between the lines.
Dybala turned quickly, just enough space, just enough time.
One look up.
A perfectly threaded pass.
Right between the Arsenal center-backs.
Higuaín made the run.
Perfectly timed.
He met the ball just inside the box.
One touch.
Then a clean, driven finish past Čech into the bottom corner.
Net.
2–2.
The Juventus end erupted into a wall of noise.
Higuaín turned, roaring, fists clenched, teammates swarming him in celebration.
For a second, the sound swallowed everything else.
Francesco stood still, hands on his hips again, chest rising and falling as he took it in.
Level.
Back to the beginning.
He exhaled slowly.
Then he turned, clapping sharply.
"Head up!" he shouted.
"Still ours!"
Around him, his teammates responded.
Kanté nodded once.
Xhaka shouted instructions.
Van Dijk gestured with his arm, pulling the line together.
Özil clapped his hands softly, expression calm.
There was no panic.
Not here.
Not now.
The game resumed.
Juventus, energized by the equalizer, continued to press for a few more minutes, sensing the possibility of turning everything around completely.
Alves pushed even higher.
Mandžukić attacked crosses with more aggression.
Dybala floated, searching for another opening.
But Arsenal adjusted.
They didn't rush.
They didn't force.
They absorbed.
They held their shape.
They waited.
And gradually, the storm passed.
Minute by minute, the rhythm began to settle again.
Xhaka and Kanté started to get more touches in midfield.
Özil found a pocket of space again, calming the tempo with a simple pass out wide.
Francesco dropped slightly deeper for a moment, linking play, holding the ball, giving his teammates a breath.
Then came the moment.
Minute 68.
Juventus had pushed forward again, numbers committed.
Alves high on the right.
Alex Sandro high on the left.
Pjanić stepping up into the attacking half.
The ball broke loose near Arsenal's box after a challenge from Koscielny on Mandžukić.
It fell to Monreal.
For a split second, time slowed again.
Monreal looked up.
Saw the space.
Saw Walcott already sprinting down the right flank, a clear lane ahead of him because Juventus had committed bodies forward.
Monreal didn't hesitate.
A long, driven pass up the line.
Perfectly weighted.
Walcott accelerated onto it, leaving Alex Sandro scrambling behind him.
The counterattack was on.
Francesco exploded forward through the center, dragging Bonucci with him.
Walcott drove toward the box at full speed, glancing up once, twice.
Buffon stepped forward, trying to narrow the angle.
Chiellini cut across, trying to intercept.
But Walcott didn't pass.
He saw the gap.
He struck it low, across the keeper, toward the far corner.
The ball skimmed the grass.
Past Buffon's outstretched glove.
Into the net.
3–2.
Arsenal back in front.
The red and white half of the stadium erupted into a thunder that shook the very structure of the arena.
Walcott sprinted toward the corner, sliding on his knees, arms wide in disbelief and joy.
Francesco reached him seconds later, grabbing his shoulders, shouting in his face with pure adrenaline.
"Yes! That's it!"
Kanté arrived, smiling broadly.
Özil jogged in, raising both arms.
Xhaka punched the air again.
On the touchline, Wenger allowed himself a brief, tight smile before immediately turning back to his bench, already thinking about the next phase.
Because he knew.
There were still minutes to play.
Still danger.
Still decisions to make.
And at minute 72, he made them.
The fourth official's board went up.
Three changes for Arsenal.
Off came Alexis Sánchez.
Off came Theo Walcott.
Off came Mesut Özil.
They had run themselves into the ground.
They had delivered.
Now it was time to secure.
On came Olivier Giroud.
On came Per Mertesacker.
On came Santi Cazorla.
As Mertesacker stepped onto the pitch, Francesco jogged over to him immediately.
Without words, he pulled the captain's armband from his arm and handed it over.
Per took it with a small nod, slipping it onto his sleeve.
Leadership passed again.
Calm.
Experienced.
Steady.
Arsenal reshaped instantly.
Five defenders now across the back line.
Monreal tucking in.
Van Dijk central.
Koscielny beside him.
Mertesacker organizing everything with that commanding presence.
Bellerín dropping deeper on the right.
In midfield, Kanté, Xhaka, and Cazorla formed a tight, intelligent trio.
And up front, two strikers now.
Francesco.
And Giroud.
A partnership of movement and strength.
Speed and hold-up play.
Two different threats.
Juventus responded as well.
Allegri made his own adjustments.
Andrea Barzagli came off.
Miralem Pjanić came off.
On came Juan Cuadrado, adding pace and width.
On came Claudio Marchisio, bringing fresh legs and control to the midfield.
The final phase of the match had begun.
Juventus pushed again.
They had to.
Time was slipping.
Crosses came into the box from both sides now.
Cuadrado drove at Monreal with quick feet.
Alves continued his relentless runs.
Marchisio looked for quick combinations with Dybala.
Higuaín battled in the box, trying to find space between the defenders.
But Arsenal had changed.
They were deeper.
More compact.
More physical.
Mertesacker's voice carried constantly, organizing, instructing, demanding focus.
"Line! Step! Clear it!"
Van Dijk rose to win header after header.
Koscielny threw himself into blocks.
Bellerín tracked back tirelessly.
Monreal held his ground.
In midfield, Kanté was everywhere again, breaking up attacks, intercepting passes, snapping into tackles.
Xhaka stayed disciplined, protecting the space in front of the defense.
Cazorla added calm when they had the ball, keeping possession, drawing fouls, slowing the tempo whenever possible.
And up front, Francesco and Giroud worked together.
Giroud held the ball up when it came forward, using his strength to bring others into play.
Francesco made runs in behind when space opened, forcing Juventus to keep at least one defender deeper.
The shape held.
The clock kept moving.
And every second that passed felt heavier than the last.
Francesco could feel it in his legs now that deep, familiar burn that came from ninety minutes of running at the highest level. But it wasn't fatigue that filled his chest.
It was clarity.
They were close.
Not done.
But close.
He glanced over his shoulder as Juventus recycled possession once again through the middle, Marchisio taking a touch and moving it wide to Alves. The Brazilian sent another cross into the box, this one looping higher, hanging for a moment under the floodlights before dropping into the danger area.
Mertesacker stepped forward, reading it early, rising above Higuaín with perfect timing.
Clear.
The ball dropped just outside the area.
Xhaka met it first, bringing it down and immediately shifting it out toward Cazorla.
Santi took one touch.
Then another.
He didn't rush.
Didn't panic.
He slowed everything down.
The kind of composure that could quiet a storm.
Francesco jogged a few yards forward, glancing at Giroud.
The French striker nodded once.
They both knew what to do.
Cazorla waited.
Waited.
Then slipped a short, sharp pass into Giroud's feet just past the halfway line.
Giroud controlled it with his back to goal, body strong, Bonucci pressing into him from behind.
One touch to secure.
Then he held.
He felt Francesco's run before he even saw it.
Francesco burst forward through the inside channel, accelerating between Chiellini and Bonucci, the same space he had attacked in the first half, the same half-yard he had learned to recognize.
Giroud pivoted.
A perfectly timed flick.
A delicate, intelligent layoff into the path of the run.
And suddenly Francesco was through.
The space opened in front of him.
Grass.
Goal.
And one man between him and history.
Gianluigi Buffon stepped forward again, his presence still commanding, still immense even at this stage.
But Francesco was already composed.
Already certain.
He took one steadying touch.
Let the ball roll just ahead of his stride.
And then, with his next step, he struck.
Low.
Precise.
Across the keeper.
The ball slid beyond Buffon's reach and kissed the inside of the far post before settling into the net.
For a fraction of a second, the world went silent.
Then the eruption came.
4–2.
Francesco didn't even remember starting his run toward the corner flag.
He just found himself sprinting, arms wide, shouting with everything he had left as the sound crashed down around him like thunder.
Brace.
In a Champions League Final.
His teammates swarmed him again with Giroud grabbing him in a tight embrace, shouting in his ear with pure joy.
"That's it! That's it!"
Kanté arrived smiling, Xhaka pumping both fists, Cazorla clapping as he jogged in, Mertesacker raising an arm toward the crowd in acknowledgment.
Francesco closed his eyes for just a split second in the middle of it all.
One breath.
One moment.
Then he opened them again.
Still work to do.
Always work to do.
They jogged back toward the center circle, resetting once more.
Juventus restarted, but now there was a shift in the energy.
You could feel it.
The urgency had turned to desperation.
The passes were quicker, riskier.
The shape more stretched.
They needed something.
Anything.
They pushed forward again.
Alves drove down the right, Cuadrado trying to combine with him, Mandžukić still battling on the opposite side, Higuaín still searching for space.
But Arsenal were in control now.
Not just in shape.
In belief.
They knew they had them.
And then, at minute 84, they struck again.
It began in midfield.
Cazorla again.
Always calm.
Always aware.
He picked up the ball under pressure from Marchisio, danced away from the challenge with that effortless turn of his body, and then lifted his head.
Francesco made a short checking run, pulling Chiellini slightly out of position.
Giroud stayed central, holding the line.
Cazorla saw it.
The smallest gap between defenders.
A perfect angle.
He slipped the pass forward.
Crisp.
Clean.
Into Giroud's path.
Giroud controlled it just inside the box, using his body to shield from Bonucci, then shifted it onto his stronger foot.
Buffon set himself again.
But this time, there was no stopping it.
Giroud struck through the ball with power and precision, sending it high past the keeper and into the roof of the net.
5–2.
The stadium exploded again.
This time even louder.
This time with something else mixed into the noise.
Disbelief.
Joy.
Release.
Giroud turned, fists clenched, roaring as he ran toward the Arsenal fans.
Cazorla followed, laughing, arms wide.
Francesco reached them seconds later, pulling Giroud into an embrace, pressing his forehead briefly against his teammate's.
"We did it," Giroud said breathlessly.
Francesco shook his head slightly, smiling through the adrenaline.
"Not yet," he replied.
"Finish it."
There were still minutes on the clock.
And Juventus, to their credit, did not stop.
They kept coming.
Kept pushing.
At minute 87, Allegri made another change, pulling Dybala off and sending on Lemina in a final attempt to inject fresh energy into the midfield.
The Italian side continued to drive forward, Cuadrado whipping in another dangerous cross that Van Dijk cleared away.
A shot from distance flew over the bar.
Another cross was caught cleanly by Čech, who took his time before releasing it again, letting the seconds tick away.
Arsenal dropped deeper now.
Compact.
Disciplined.
Every player behind the ball when needed.
Francesco still made his runs when the chance came, chasing long clearances, forcing Juventus to retreat just enough to relieve pressure.
Giroud battled beside him, winning headers, holding up play, drawing fouls.
In midfield, Kanté never stopped.
Even now.
Even this late.
Still chasing.
Still intercepting.
Still everywhere.
Xhaka stayed disciplined beside him.
Cazorla continued to bring calm every time the ball reached his feet.
At the back, the five-man line held strong.
Bellerín and Monreal tight on the flanks.
Koscielny and Van Dijk dominant in the center.
Mertesacker orchestrating everything with that commanding voice that never wavered.
"Hold the line!"
"Stay together!"
"Clear it!"
The minutes ticked down.
Eighty-eight.
Eighty-nine.
The fourth official raised the board.
Added time.
Just a few more minutes.
Just a few more.
Francesco's chest rose and fell as he looked around the stadium once more.
The sea of red and white.
The flags.
The faces.
Some already crying.
Some already celebrating.
But he stayed focused.
Until the last whistle.
Always until the last whistle.
Juventus pushed one final time.
A last cross.
A last shot.
Blocked.
Cleared.
Recovered.
And then.
The referee's whistle cut through everything.
Long.
Final.
Decisive.
The match was over.
Arsenal had done it.
5–2.
Champions of Europe.
For a moment, Francesco just stood there.
Still.
Breathing.
Letting the sound wash over him.
Then it hit.
All at once.
The realization.
The release.
The joy.
He dropped to his knees on the grass, head falling forward as his hands pressed against the turf beneath him.
They had done it.
Every run.
Every training session.
Every sacrifice.
Every match.
It had all led to this.
Around him, his teammates erupted.
Kanté laughing as he hugged Xhaka.
Cazorla spinning in circles with pure joy.
Giroud punching the air again and again.
Mertesacker raising both arms to the sky.
Čech jogging forward from his goal, a rare smile breaking across his face.
Wenger on the touchline, composed but clearly emotional, applauding his players with quiet pride.
Francesco pushed himself back to his feet as teammates rushed toward him again, arms wrapping around him, lifting him into the embrace.
"You did it, captain!"
"We did it!"
He shook his head, smiling, pulling them closer.
"Together," he said again.
Just like he had before the match.
Just like he had promised.
And now, under the lights of the final, with the roar of thousands echoing through the night, it was no longer just a promise.
______________________________________________
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, Euro 2016, and Premier League Champion 2016/2017.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
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