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As he walked toward the locker room, the sun casting long shadows across the Colney pitch, Francesco felt a profound sense of satisfaction. The cameras had witnessed the work, but more importantly, he had rediscovered his rhythm, his focus, and his purpose. The season was coming. And he would be ready, fully, unmistakably ready.
The days slipped by like soft echoes of breath — morning after morning at Colney, each training session fine-tuned to perfection. Francesco's movements grew sharper, lighter, more deliberate. The cameras from the Castrol team had long since packed up, leaving behind a faint void where once there were lenses and lights. Yet the discipline lingered, almost like muscle memory — the feeling of being observed had refined him, reminded him that greatness was not in performance alone, but in consistency, in the unseen repetition that built champions.
By the time the 14th of August arrived, London felt alive again — the city vibrating with the familiar hum of football season. The streets glowed faintly beneath the early sun, and even the air carried that faint, electric crispness of match day. Posters hung along bus stops and high streets: "Premier League Returns — Arsenal vs. Liverpool, 4 PM." The date marked not just another season, but the start of something bigger — Francesco's first campaign as Arsenal's official captain.
He woke before dawn, instinct pulling him from sleep before the alarm could. Leah stirred beside him, her voice soft and warm in the dim light.
"Big day?" she murmured, half-smiling, eyes still closed.
"The biggest," Francesco said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. The morning light spilled gently across the room, golden and fragile, brushing over the Arsenal track jacket draped neatly over a chair. "The first match of a long road."
Leah sat up slightly, brushing her hair from her face. "You've been preparing for this since you were a kid, haven't you?"
Francesco smiled faintly, turning to look at her. "Not like this. Not as captain. This… this feels different. Heavier, maybe. But right."
She reached out, placing a hand over his. "You'll be fine. You always are when it matters. Just remember — play like yourself. Don't let the noise change you."
He leaned in, kissed her forehead softly. "Always," he whispered.
The drive to Colney was quiet — unusually so. The BMW's hum blended into the early morning rhythm of the M25, while soft mist clung to the hedgerows lining the motorway. Francesco's mind moved between thoughts: formations, patterns, what Liverpool might bring, and how his own rhythm would dictate Arsenal's first tempo of the season.
He'd done this drive hundreds of times, but today every turn felt deliberate, every breath measured. He wasn't just another player arriving for training; he was the first through the gates on match day, the first heartbeat of Arsenal's new season.
When he pulled into the Colney car park, the sky had brightened into soft silver-blue. The smell of grass, faintly damp from morning dew, mixed with the subtle trace of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the training complex. The first few players were already there — Bellerín, always early, jogging lightly near the gym entrance, earbuds in. Ramsey followed soon after, his duffel slung casually over his shoulder.
"Morning, Captain," Ramsey said with an easy grin as he spotted Francesco stepping out of the car.
"Morning," Francesco replied, his tone calm, but his smile genuine. "Ready?"
"Born ready. But you know, first game nerves — new season, big expectations, Liverpool… always chaos," Ramsey said with a small laugh.
Francesco chuckled. "Chaos is fine. As long as we control it."
Inside, the atmosphere carried a quiet, restless energy. The locker room was polished, the Arsenal crest gleaming above the red benches. Each kit was laid out perfectly — shirts folded, boots aligned, captain's armband placed neatly atop Francesco's seat. The sight of it still gave him pause. He picked it up, feeling the woven fabric between his fingers. The weight of the band was almost symbolic — not heavy, but meaningful, binding.
Wenger entered not long after, his silhouette framed by the doorway. The players quieted almost instinctively, a ripple of attention spreading through the room.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Wenger began, his voice calm but firm. "The first day of a new season always brings excitement — and responsibility. You have all worked for this moment. Preseason was not about results, but rhythm, cohesion, readiness. And I see it — in all of you."
He glanced toward Francesco, eyes holding steady. "Today, we begin not just another campaign, but a new chapter. Our captain will lead you — and I have no doubt he will lead with the same integrity, intelligence, and passion he has always shown."
Francesco inclined his head slightly, the armband still in his hand. Around him, he could feel the weight of respect in the silence. Wenger continued, pacing slowly before the group.
"Liverpool will press high. They will run, they will chase, and they will force mistakes. But remember — we are Arsenal. We control. We think. We adapt. When the storm comes, you play with clarity, not panic. Precision, not impulse."
The words flowed through the room like steady current — calm but empowering. Wenger had that gift: to make the biggest occasions feel manageable, almost simple.
The players began moving, pulling on training jackets and adjusting boots. Laughter mixed with focus, light banter filling the air — the calm before the storm. Sánchez joked about Bellerín's new haircut, while Walcott teased Xhaka about his music taste. It was easy, natural — the sound of a squad that trusted one another.
Francesco stood for a moment at his locker, sliding the armband over his forearm. It fit perfectly. In that moment, he caught his reflection in the mirror — not the boy who'd joined Arsenal years ago, wide-eyed and hungry, but a man who had become its center.
The call came soon after: "Team bus in fifteen."
They filed out in small groups, carrying duffel bags, jackets, and headphones slung casually around necks. The August sun had begun to burn away the mist, revealing a pale blue sky streaked with the faint promise of heat. The air outside smelled faintly of grass and diesel as the team bus waited — sleek, red, polished, the Arsenal crest gleaming on the side.
Francesco climbed aboard first, as tradition dictated. Inside, the mood was a blend of calm concentration and quiet excitement. He took his usual seat near the front, window side, gazing out as the bus slowly began to roll down the lane and merge onto the open road.
Conversations buzzed around him — Sánchez and Monreal discussing positioning, Walcott and Bellerín arguing playfully about who was faster, Xhaka leaning forward to go over defensive rotations with Coquelin. Wenger sat near the front, his expression thoughtful, papers in hand, occasionally jotting small notes.
Francesco put in his earbuds, letting the hum of the bus blend with the music — soft, rhythmic instrumentals that steadied his heartbeat. He thought of Leah again, probably watching the early news, maybe even planning to join the crowd later at the Emirates. He smiled faintly at the thought.
The bus rolled through London, crossing familiar streets now lined with fans in red and white scarves, waving flags, shouting chants. Children on their parents' shoulders cheered as the bus passed, their voices faint but filled with energy. Francesco leaned slightly closer to the glass, watching them — the pure, undiluted love that surrounded the club he now led.
As they neared North London, the Emirates came into view — majestic under the afternoon sun, a monument of steel and spirit. Francesco felt his chest tighten slightly, not from nerves, but from pride. This was his home.
The bus pulled into the stadium's underground entrance, where security and staff greeted them. The smell of fresh turf and faintly oiled concrete filled the tunnel as the players filed out. Francesco adjusted his jacket, slinging his bag over one shoulder.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere shifted again — quieter, tighter, the calm before battle. The kits were waiting on hangers: the iconic red and white home strip, crisp and immaculate, the number 9 and "LEE" stitched perfectly across the back.
The dressing room was alive with movement with boots thudding softly against the tiled floor, the low hum of conversation mingling with the distant roar of fans filtering faintly from outside. The clock ticked past eleven in the morning, and the Arsenal players began shifting into the next phase of their matchday rhythm. Francesco stood, rolling his shoulders to loosen the last traces of stiffness, before reaching for his training kit.
The red training top clung neatly against his frame, the familiar crest pressed over his heart. He'd done this routine countless times, but today, the motions carried a gravity that felt new. The first game of a season always did, especially when you were the one wearing the armband.
Around him, the atmosphere was a blend of focus and calm familiarity. Bellerín was pulling on his socks beside Koscielny, chatting lightly in Spanish. Özil sat a few lockers down, headphones in, eyes half closed as he visualized patterns of play in that quiet, calculating way of his. Sánchez stretched on the floor with his usual restless energy, while Kanté jogged in place near the door with a silent, methodical, eyes sharp.
Francesco zipped up his top and laced his boots tightly, the routine grounding him. When he finally looked up, Wenger was already at the doorway, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
"Warm-up, gentlemen," Wenger said, voice calm but resonant. "Precision and rhythm. You know the process."
They followed him out through the tunnel as that long, echoing passageway where light and sound seemed to blend into one powerful current. As they emerged into the open, the Emirates unfolded before them, radiant under the mid-morning sun. Empty seats glimmered in soft red rows, awaiting the surge of 60,000 supporters.
The pitch was immaculate, the grass short and dew-kissed. Francesco took his first few strides across it, feeling the firmness beneath his boots, the faint give of soil that whispered of readiness.
They started with the basics with jogs across half-length stretches, high knees, dynamic stretches, then quick sprints between cones. The air carried the faint tang of liniment and cut grass, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional sharp whistle from the assistant coach.
After the first twenty minutes, the rhythm changed. Small rondo circles formed with five against two, quick touches, faster reactions. Francesco joined Özil, Xhaka, and Sánchez in one circle, the ball zipping between them with crisp precision.
"Sharp, sharp!" Xhaka called out, cutting off a lazy pass with a grin.
"Try catching me first," Francesco shot back, flicking the ball around his leg with a deft touch that drew a brief cheer from the nearby staff.
Then came the finishing drills. Short bursts, tight angles, and rapid cuts before each strike. Cech manned the goal, diving gracefully, testing every angle. Francesco's rhythm was already locked in — one step, two, strike — the ball curving effortlessly into the top left corner. Again, again, again. The sound of ball against net became its own steady percussion.
"Looks ready already, boss," Steve Bould murmured to Wenger from the sideline.
Wenger only nodded, eyes fixed on Francesco. "He was ready when he woke up this morning."
The warm-up lasted forty-five minutes, each segment fine-tuned to activate muscle and focus alike. When the whistle finally came to end it, Francesco wiped the sweat from his brow, heart steady and mind sharp.
Back in the tunnel, the noise of the crowd was beginning to build a low, growing murmur that trembled through the concrete. The squad returned to the dressing room, their boots echoing softly against the floor. Inside, the air had changed. The laughter was gone now; the focus had settled in.
The kits awaited them again — pristine, pressed, their numbers gleaming under the overhead lights. Francesco stood by his locker, unzipping his training top and pulling on the match shirt. The fabric felt cool against his skin, familiar and reassuring. He adjusted the collar, then slipped the armband onto his left arm, tightening it with a single, steady motion.
Around him, the players dressed in silence. Sánchez was the first to pull his head up, his expression calm but electric. "Let's make a statement," he murmured.
Theo Walcott nodded from across the room. "From the first whistle."
Wenger waited until everyone had taken their seats before stepping forward, the match sheet in his hand. His eyes swept across the room — taking in not just the players, but the collective heartbeat that pulsed through the air.
"Alright," he began, his tone steady but deliberate. "This is the first test of the new campaign. You've trained well, you've earned your place, and now we put everything into motion."
He paused, then unfolded the paper, setting it against the tactics board. "We'll use a 4-3-3. Control the rhythm, stretch their press, and strike through vertical transitions. Remember, Liverpool will press aggressively as Klopp's men will come high, they will swarm. Our composure will break them."
He drew the formation with calm precision, each name marked in red.
"In goal, Petr Čech," he said, glancing at the tall Czech veteran, who gave a brief nod. "Composure, experience, communication. Lead from the back, Petr."
"Defence," Wenger continued, tapping along the back four. "From left to right: Nacho Monreal, Virgil van Dijk, Laurent Koscielny, and Héctor Bellerín. Stay compact, control the line. Virgil, you and Laurent hold structure, let Bellerín release only when possession is secure."
The defenders nodded silently, their focus absolute.
"In midfield," Wenger said, his tone tightening slightly. "We anchor with Kanté. Energy, recovery, interception — you know your job. Granit Xhaka beside him to controlling the tempo, dictate rhythm. And ahead, Mesut Özil. Find the space, slip between their lines, make them chase shadows."
Özil's calm expression didn't change, but Francesco could see the flicker of anticipation in his eyes, the quiet spark of artistry about to be unleashed.
"On the wings," Wenger continued, "Alexis Sánchez on the left, Theo Walcott on the right. Exploit width, pull their full-backs apart. Do not give them a breathing room."
Finally, his gaze lifted to Francesco. "And leading the line, Francesco Lee. Captain, striker, first press, final touch. You set the rhythm, you lead the energy. Every movement starts with you."
The room fell into a measured silence. Francesco met Wenger's eyes, gave a single nod.
"I understand, boss."
Wenger turned the board slightly, indicating the substitutes next. "On the bench: David Ospina, Kieran Gibbs, Aaron Ramsey, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, Jack Wilshere, Santi Cazorla, and Olivier Giroud." He paused, letting the weight of the lineup sink in. "Every man will be needed this season. This is not just about the starting eleven, it's about the collective. We build, we trust, we fight."
The players' eyes flickered toward one another — silent acknowledgment, a shared pulse of belief.
Then Wenger stepped closer to the center of the room, his voice lowering slightly. "You all know what the first match means. It sets the tone for everything. There will be noise, there will be chaos. But if we play with intelligence and with patience then we win not by force, but by control."
He looked directly at Francesco once more. "Lead them. As you always have. Lead with calm, with precision, with heart."
Francesco rose from his seat, rolling his shoulders. The armband caught the light, a faint gleam of red and gold. Around him, boots clicked against the floor as the players stood, forming a loose circle. He looked around at Sánchez's fierce eyes, Özil's quiet determination, Xhaka's ready posture, Cech's calm readiness and felt the energy coalesce.
"This is it," Francesco said softly, but the tone carried through the room. "First day. First battle. We start strong, we stay sharp, and we remember who we are."
"Arsenal," Walcott murmured back, the single word catching in the air.
"Arsenal," Koscielny repeated, stronger this time.
"Arsenal," the team echoed, voices merging into one steady, powerful note.
Wenger gave a slight smile, stepping back. "Good. Now go, make them remember who you are."
The locker room burst into motion — shirts tucked in, laces tightened, gloves pulled on. Francesco adjusted his captain's armband one last time before leading the line out of the dressing room. The tunnel awaited, lit with a soft amber glow, the roar of 60,000 fans rising beyond it like a wave about to break.
As they lined up, Francesco glanced sideways. On one side stood Özil, serene as ever. On the other, Sánchez, bouncing lightly on his toes, a storm waiting to be unleashed.
He drew a long breath, steady, deliberate. This was the start of something new. Not just a season, a statement.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the pulse of the stadium beyond the tunnel, the rhythm of thousands calling his club's name. Then he stepped forward, and the roar of the Emirates swallowed them whole.
The tunnel glowed under the stadium floodlights — that narrow, echoing passage where anticipation thickened like static before a storm. Francesco stood at the very front, captain's armband gleaming faintly beneath the light. Ahead of him, the referees waited with calm, composed while beside them, the Liverpool squad shifted into formation, their red kits sharp and fierce under the bright tunnel glow. The sound beyond the concrete walls was deafening now as the Emirates roaring, chanting, vibrating like the heartbeat of a living giant.
Behind Francesco, his teammates lined up in perfect order with Cech tall and imposing, Koscielny steady as ever, Van Dijk focused with quiet authority, Sánchez cracking his knuckles with a grin that looked almost predatory. The tension wasn't fear but it was readiness, a hunger sharpened by months of preparation.
The referee gave a small nod, signaling both sides. The tunnel speakers buzzed faintly before the stadium announcer's voice boomed over the crowd:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Arsenal Football Club!"
The response was thunder.
Francesco stepped forward, leading his team out into a wall of noise and light.
The Emirates was a living, breathing storm of red and white. Flags rippled, scarves waved, and chants erupted into the evening air. The Arsenal anthem echoed through every tier, voices overlapping in a sea of devotion. Francesco felt the vibration beneath his boots as they walked across the pitch with the grass perfect, emerald, almost unreal under the floodlights.
Beside them, Liverpool emerged to their own applause, the familiar sea of red on red; Klopp's men looked intense, focused, their high-energy presence already palpable. Francesco gave a brief glance toward Henderson, his counterpart — strong posture, eyes locked forward. Mutual respect. They both knew what this meant.
Once on the pitch, the teams lined up opposite each other, shoulder to shoulder, facing the stands. The noise softened for just a moment as the Premier League anthem began to play.
Francesco lifted his chin slightly, eyes scanning the packed stands with banners of him, of Wenger, of the squad's glory from last season's treble. Champions of England, Europe, and the FA Cup. The pressure wasn't something to shy from, it was something to wear proudly.
As the anthem faded, the referee gestured for the customary handshake. Francesco extended his hand first, shaking with the officials, then with Henderson.
"Good luck, mate," Henderson said, voice half-drowned in the noise.
"You too," Francesco replied with a grin. "Let's make it a good one."
They moved down the line, each Arsenal player greeting their opposite. Koscielny exchanged nods with Firmino, Kanté clasped hands with Wijnaldum, Özil gave a polite handshake to Lallana. It was professional, respectful — the calm before they'd tear into one another.
Then came the photograph, the moment that froze the calm forever.
The eleven starters gathered shoulder to shoulder, kneeling and standing before the giant Emirates backdrop, cameras flashing from every angle. Francesco, at the center, crouched slightly with hands resting on his knees. The captain's armband stood out in the shot, crimson against the white sleeve.
The flashbulbs popped. One click, one frame, one memory. Then it was gone.
Moments later, Francesco made his way to the center circle for the coin toss. The referee joined them, coin already in hand, Henderson at his side. The crowd noise swelled, muffled but thunderous.
"Gentlemen," the referee said, flipping the coin deftly into the air.
Francesco called, "Right!"
The coin landed in his favor.
The referee nodded toward him. "Arsenal kick-off."
Francesco turned, exchanging a brief nod with Henderson. "See you in the middle of it."
"Always," Henderson said with a smirk before jogging back to his half.
Francesco stayed a moment longer at the circle's edge, taking in the sight of the stadium now a cauldron of red, gold, and white; the sound of the fans cresting like waves. The world around him blurred for just a second — the noise, the movement, the lights. Only the pitch remained clear, sharp, alive.
He turned toward his teammates as they gathered near the center with Sánchez and Özil at his sides, Xhaka and Kanté just behind. Cech stood far back, one arm raised in silent acknowledgment.
Francesco drew a breath, raised his voice over the roaring crowd.
"Alright, listen up!" he called, his tone strong but steady. The circle around him tightened — players leaning in, their breaths visible in the soft evening air. "We've been here before. We've done the impossible. Back-to-back champions, a treble last year but that's history now. Everyone out there wants to see if we can do it again."
He paused, eyes moving from face to face and saw Sánchez's fierce gaze, Özil's quiet focus, Van Dijk's stoic calm.
"So here's the truth. we're not just defending titles. We're defending a legacy. Ours. Wenger's. Arsenal's."
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the group.
"They're going to press hard. They're going to test us. But remember, we control the game. Our football is about intelligence, patience, precision. We make them chase us. We make them feel our rhythm. From the first whistle to the last, we show them who the champions are."
He raised his hand, the armband catching the light once more. "Let's show the world what we're capable of. This isn't just about today, it's about everything we've built."
He looked directly at each of them again, a silent vow in his eyes. "Let's go out there and remind them why we're Arsenal."
"Let's go!" shouted Sánchez, slapping Francesco's shoulder.
The circle broke with a surge of energy — claps, shouts, chest bumps. The air crackled with purpose.
From the stands, the roar grew louder as Arsenal chants rolling like thunder.
Francesco jogged toward the center spot, rolling the ball lightly under his boot, feeling its perfect balance. Özil moved to his right, Sánchez to the left, both ready to explode the moment the whistle blew. The referee checked his watch, took a last glance across the pitch, then raised the whistle to his lips.
Francesco's heart steadied.
He thought of Leah watching from the stands somewhere — the red scarf, the faint smile. He thought of the hours, the training, the leadership, the weight of that armband. And in that single heartbeat before the whistle, he felt utterly calm.
The shrill sound pierced the air.
And with one simple touch, Francesco nudged the ball back to Xhaka.
The 2016/2017 Premier League season had begun.
The first few moments unfolded like a symphony of rhythm and tension. Arsenal's passes were crisp, deliberate — back, forward, out wide. Cech's voice carried across the pitch, commanding the back line. Van Dijk was already dictating shape, motioning to Koscielny to hold closer. Liverpool pressed high as expected with Klopp's trademark aggression in full force. Coutinho, Firmino, and Mané swarmed forward like hounds, testing Arsenal's composure.
But Francesco's Arsenal was not a team that panicked. They'd been molded through battles greater than this — the Champions League final, title deciders, injury storms. This was familiar territory.
Within two minutes, Özil found the first sliver of space between the lines, gliding past Wijnaldum before slipping a short pass to Xhaka. One touch, and the ball zipped wide to Bellerín. The Spaniard's run cut deep, overlapping past Walcott. The crowd rose instinctively as Walcott curled a quick cross into the box.
Francesco leapt, glancing the ball narrowly over the bar. Close. The Emirates groaned, then applauded.
He jogged back, clapping his hands. "Good start! Keep it sharp!" he shouted.
Liverpool tried to answer back with their own pressing — Henderson feeding Firmino, who twisted and turned past Monreal before laying it off to Coutinho. But Kanté was there in an instant, intercepting with surgical precision, spinning on his heel and launching the counter.
The rhythm of the game began to form — Arsenal the architects, Liverpool the disruptors.
Every time Francesco dropped deep to link play, the crowd hummed. His movement was fluid — drifting between Lovren and Klavan, pulling them out of position. Özil saw it, feeding those clever diagonal balls that sliced open half-spaces. Sánchez darted inside from the left, combining with Monreal on overlapping runs.
By the tenth minute, Arsenal had already established control — possession steady, tempo smooth, the Emirates singing in full voice.
From the touchline, Wenger stood with arms folded, expression unreadable, but inside, he knew: his team looked like champions again.
Francesco received the ball again at the edge of the box, faking left, pivoting right. The defenders hesitated, expecting a pass — but he struck. The shot curled just wide, grazing the net's outer layer. Gasps echoed through the stands.
Liverpool's counter came immediately — Mané bursting down the right, chased by Monreal. A flick through to Firmino, a one-two, and suddenly, Cech had to dive low to parry the shot. The crowd exhaled as Koscielny cleared.
"Stay calm!" Francesco barked, jogging back toward the midfield. "We stay compact!"
Kanté nodded, gesturing to Xhaka to drop deeper. The rhythm restored itself like a pulse finding its beat again.
The Emirates trembled with a collective intake of breath as Theo Walcott, lightning-quick down the right, cut inside just past the 20-minute mark. Liverpool's backline scrambled — Moreno backtracking, arms flailing, studs screeching over the slick turf. The Spaniard lunged, just a fraction late, clipping Walcott's trailing leg as the winger cut toward goal.
The collision was clean enough to draw a gasp before the inevitable sound split the air.
Peeeeep!
The referee's whistle pierced through the roar — and his hand was already up, pointing decisively to the spot.
The Emirates erupted in a thunder of sound and fury.
"Penalty!" shouted Martin Tyler's voice over the Sky Sports commentary. "Walcott's been brought down — and Arsenal have a golden chance here in the 21st minute!"
Alan Smith's tone carried both excitement and approval. "That's clumsy from Moreno, Martin. He was always going to be second best there. Walcott had him for pace, and once he cut inside, there was only one outcome. It's a definite penalty — and a yellow card for the Liverpool full-back."
Down on the pitch, Moreno raised both hands in protest, shaking his head at the referee, but it was futile. The yellow card was already out. Klopp was pacing furiously near the touchline, arms gesturing, disbelief flashing across his face — but even he couldn't deny it.
Francesco was already walking toward the penalty spot.
The crowd's chant of "LEE! LEE! LEE!" rolled like a storm behind him, echoing across the Emirates' curved roof. Every camera lens turned toward him now — Arsenal's captain, top scorer, the talisman who had dragged them through impossible nights in Europe.
He reached for the ball calmly, taking it from Walcott, who gave a quick pat on the back before stepping away.
"Take it, skip," Walcott muttered, breathless but grinning. "Make it count."
Francesco gave a short nod, tucking the ball under his arm.
He stepped to the spot, the grass immaculate beneath him, and placed the ball with care. The white penalty mark gleamed under the floodlights as he pressed it gently into the turf, rolling it once with his boot to make sure it settled perfectly.
Mignolet, towering in the goalmouth, bounced on his line — arms spread wide, eyes locked on Francesco. He shouted, waved, tried to throw him off.
Francesco didn't even blink.
He straightened up, exhaled, and fixed his gaze squarely on the ball. Everything else — the sound, the movement, the chaos — dissolved into silence.
Only the distance between him and the net remained.
Martin Tyler's voice murmured softly as though afraid to break the tension. "It's Francesco Lee… the Arsenal captain… facing Mignolet…"
Alan Smith added, voice tight with anticipation. "You'd back him here, wouldn't you, Martin? He's been flawless from the spot these past two seasons."
Francesco took his steps back — one, two, three. His body relaxed, arms loose by his sides, chin slightly lowered.
Mignolet bounced again, trying to guess, reading the eyes, reading the posture. Francesco's expression gave nothing away.
The referee raised his whistle.
Peeeeep!
Francesco moved.
A calm, effortless glide — one, two steps — and then that delicate lift of the right foot.
The ball left his boot not with power, but with the serene arrogance of a man in complete control.
It floated upward in a perfect arc — slow, teasing, graceful — sailing right down the middle as Mignolet hurled himself full stretch to his right.
The ball kissed the back of the net.
GOAL!
The Emirates detonated.
"Panenka!" cried Martin Tyler, his voice breaking into laughter. "Oh, my word! Francesco Lee with the audacity — the composure — to dink it right down the center! 1–0 Arsenal!"
Alan Smith was half-laughing in disbelief. "That's pure class, Martin. Absolute nerve! He's made Mignolet look foolish there — sent him diving to the right while the ball just… floats in! That's confidence. That's what champions are made of."
Francesco turned away from the goal, arms outstretched, calm as ever. No wild sprint, no over-celebration — just that knowing smile as he looked toward the North Bank. His teammates swarmed him, Sánchez leaping onto his back, Özil clapping, Kanté shouting something in French that was lost in the noise.
The Emirates was shaking. Flags whipped the air. The chant of his name thundered again:
"LEE! LEE! LEE!"
Cameras caught Mignolet kneeling, shaking his head with a rueful smile, muttering under his breath. He'd been played — plain and simple.
On the touchline, Klopp turned away, hands on hips, muttering something to his assistant Zeljko Buvac, likely about the danger of giving Francesco any kind of opening.
Wenger, meanwhile, allowed himself the faintest of smiles. He turned to Steve Bould beside him. "He never loses composure. That's what makes him special."
Bould nodded, eyes still locked on the pitch. "And Liverpool just poked the bear, Arsène."
Francesco jogged back toward the halfway line, still grinning faintly, exchanging handshakes and pats with teammates. Sánchez, leaned in close as they reset.
"Panenka, huh?" he laughed. "You madman. You nearly stopped my heart!"
Francesco chuckled, his voice low. "If you're going to do it, do it with style."
Liverpool tried to regain their footing after the restart, but that goal had rattled them. Their press lost some of its bite, their passes grew heavier, more frantic. Henderson barked orders, trying to lift spirits, but Arsenal smelled blood.
Sky Sports' commentary kept rolling, reflecting the rhythm of the match.
"Arsenal absolutely buzzing now," said Martin Tyler. "That early goal and what a goal, has the Emirates bouncing. And look at their shape, Alan. They're not sitting back."
"No, they're not," replied Smith. "They're pushing forward, pinning Liverpool in. You can see Francesco dropping deep when needed, linking up with Özil and Kanté. This is the kind of control Wenger dreams of — calm, composed, dictating everything."
By the 28th minute, Arsenal's rhythm was irresistible. Walcott darted down the right again, exchanging a slick one-two with Bellerín before cutting a pass inside to Özil, who turned on a dime. His low through ball split the defense — inches ahead of Sánchez. Mignolet rushed out, just getting a glove to it before the Chilean could pounce.
The Emirates roared its approval nonetheless. Every movement, every pass, had confidence, control, belief.
Francesco stayed composed in the center, reading the flow, guiding it with invisible strings — always in the right place, always calm.
But Liverpool weren't going to lie down. Klopp's voice could be heard even from the stands, shouting, urging his front three to press higher, faster. Coutinho and Firmino began to drop deeper, trying to pull Kanté out of position.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
POTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9