If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned toward the center of the pitch, the Ballon d'Or held high, and allowed himself a private, quiet smile. The trophy wasn't just a moment frozen in time; it was a promise, a reminder that the journey continued, that every match, every pass, every sprint was part of something bigger than trophies.
The applause felt like it went on forever.
Francesco could feel it physically in his ribs, in his throat, in the skin of his forearms as thousands of Arsenal supporters refused to let the volume settle. He let himself drink it in one last time: the sweeping tiers of the Emirates bathed in bright morning sunlight, the giant banners rippling, the scarves lifted high.
He lowered the Ballon d'Or slowly, almost reverently. The cheers didn't dip; if anything, they rose again, a second wave of thunder rolling over him.
A staff member in an Arsenal puffer coat approached the touchline, giving him a nod that was half professional, half reverent. Francesco held out the Ballon d'Or, hands steady, and the staffer accepted it like he was picking up a newborn. The golden trophy was whisked toward the sideline, toward its protective case, but not before the staffer mouthed:
"Congratulations, captain."
Captain.
No matter how many times he heard it, it still hit him somewhere soft inside his chest.
Francesco exhaled, long and grounding. Then, as the stadium announcer shifted from ceremonial tones back toward match-day hype, he jogged toward the cluster of teammates on the far side of the pitch. Warm-up cones were already laid out. Cech was stretching his long frame with the keepers' coach. Monreal and Koscielny were passing lightly. Walcott was rolling his shoulders, bouncing on his toes. Kanté was already jogging in place.
Sánchez saw Francesco approaching first and elbowed Özil. Both men grinned.
"Told you they'd scream his lungs off," Sánchez said smugly.
Özil smirked back, calm and understated. "It was louder than the Champions League nights."
"Barely," Sánchez countered.
Francesco laughed as he reached them, letting the last of the adrenaline settle. "You done?"
"No," Sánchez replied immediately. "This is only the beginning. Wait until you score today. They'll start levitating."
Warm up began with easy touches, light runs, gradually shifting into sharper passes. The coldness of the grass seeped through his studs at first, but soon the familiar heat spread through his muscles. Running settled him. Passing grounded him. Movement reminded him that beneath all the noise, all the glory, the game itself was still the same.
Still his.
Still home.
The Emirates continued humming around them as fans filtering into their seats, buzz still rippling through the stands as whispers and cheers formed little pockets of excitement. Even as he worked through agility ladders, Francesco could hear echoes of:
"Look at him move, he's glowing with confidence."
"King of the Emirates!"
"Give us two goals today, captain!"
Warm-up rolled on smoothly. The rondo circles were sharp. The finishing drills were fluid. Walcott crossed; Francesco volleyed it home with ease. Sánchez clipped a disguised pass; Francesco guided it low into the corner. Kanté intercepted everything within a five-meter radius, as always. Özil sent a clean through ball across the turf, and Francesco sprinted onto it, slotting it under the keeper mannequin.
Every touch felt light. Every movement felt natural.
But beneath it all, something simmered in him that purpose, gratitude, the hot flame of wanting to repay what the fans had given him minutes earlier.
After twenty five minutes, Wenger signaled the end of warm up. The team gathered, breath steady, cheeks slightly flushed, and headed back toward the tunnel.
As they walked, Monreal shouted jokingly, "If we don't win today, the Ballon d'Or goes back!"
Francesco laughed, shaking his head. "Over my dead body."
Inside the tunnel corridor, the noise of the Emirates muffled into a heavy, anticipatory hum. The air was warm, tinged with the scent of grass, muscle rub, and the faint disinfectant of the stadium halls. Francesco rolled his shoulders, muscles loose and ready after warm-up. Teammates around him began unstrapping bibs and peeling off warm-up jackets.
Back in the dressing room, the energy shifted instantly.
This was no longer celebration.
This was preparation.
The players moved with focused routine asboots off, tape adjusted, shirts laid out along the benches with names and numbers crisp and clean. The home kit gleamed under the dressing room lights: red torso, white sleeves, gold accents. Francesco's own shirt sat perfectly folded:
LEE
9 (C)
He swallowed, feeling the weight of that number's legacy for a heartbeat.
Then he pulled it on.
The fabric hugged his shoulders snugly, light and familiar. He clipped his captain's armband around his bicep, tugging it once to tighten it. The red band, striped with subtle gold edges, felt like another heartbeat wrapped around his arm.
When everyone was seated, Wenger stepped forward, calm but commanding. The room quieted instantly.
"Alright," Wenger began, voice low but carrying a gravity forged from decades of leadership. "Today is important. Not because of the award"his eyes flicked to Francesco briefly—"but because of what we continue to build as a team."
Players nodded slowly. The hum of air vents was the only sound.
Wenger clasped his hands behind his back.
"Stoke City will approach this match with aggression," he continued, pacing slightly. "Long balls. Physical duels. Crossing early. They will test us."
He looked at Xhaka and Kanté.
"Granit, N'Golo, you control the rhythm. You break their momentum before it builds."
Both midfielders nodded with firm conviction.
He turned to the back line.
"Virgil, Laurent, strong in the air. Communicate. Don't let them isolate you."
Van Dijk gave a single sharp nod. Koscielny's eyes narrowed in focus.
"Nacho, Héctor, support the wingers, but be mindful of counters."
Monreal and Bellerín murmured their acknowledgments.
He faced the front four next.
"Mesut—"
Özil looked up from adjusting his shin pads.
"Between the lines. Make them uncomfortable."
A small, knowing grin tugged at Özil's mouth.
"Sánchez, Theo, use your pace. Stretch them. Run at the fullbacks. Make them chase."
Sánchez cracked his knuckles. Walcott bounced lightly on his toes.
Finally, Wenger's gaze settled on Francesco.
"Francesco," Wenger said, softer but somehow heavier, "lead them. Play with instinct. Hold the ball, pull defenders out, create chaos, finish when the chance comes. They will try to intimidate you. You will not yield."
Francesco nodded once, jaw set.
Wenger stepped back, drawing in a breath.
"We go with the 4-2-3-1."
He gestured toward the tactical board.
— Starting XI —
GK: Petr Čech
LB: Nacho Monreal
CB: Virgil van Dijk
CB: Laurent Koscielny
RB: Héctor Bellerín
DM: Granit Xhaka
DM: N'Golo Kanté
CAM: Mesut Özil
LW: Alexis Sánchez
RW: Theo Walcott
ST: Francesco Lee (C)
— Substitutes —
Ospina, Mustafi, Gibbs, Coquelin, Iwobi, Gnabry, Giroud.
Wenger closed his notebook.
"One more thing," he said softly. "Play for each other. And play for the fans who filled this stadium for you today, Francesco."
A quiet ripple of warmth moved through the room.
"There is no pressure," Wenger added. "Only opportunity."
With that, he stepped back.
"Ready yourselves."
Boots were tightened. Shin guards adjusted. Shirts straightened. Breath deepened.
One by one, players rose.
Francesco stood last, taking one more moment to center himself. He looked at the captain's armband around his arm, then glanced across the room at the faces of his teammates.
Let's go, he thought.
They walked out together.
The tunnel was alive with electricity with Stoke City players already lined up to the right, red and white stripes tight against their torsos. A few glanced toward the Arsenal squad with stiff expressions, some with respectful nods, others with the usual competitive edge.
Beside Francesco stood Stoke's captain for the day: Charlie Adam.
Adam gave him a firm nod. "Ballon d'Or winner, huh? Not bad for a kid."
Francesco smiled lightly. "Not bad."
"Try not to score too many today," Adam joked gruffly.
"No promises," Francesco replied.
The referees positioned themselves ahead. The fourth official adjusted his earpiece. The mascots began lining up, children wide-eyed at the sight of the two teams.
The low rumble of the Emirates crowd grew louder, like a storm building behind the walls.
Cech muttered quietly behind Francesco, "Feels like a final."
Van Dijk added, "Let's make it play like one."
The stadium announcer's voice boomed as the tunnel filled with a rush of sound.
The referee looked back at both captains, gave the slightest nod—
And the doors opened.
A tidal wave of noise slammed into them.
The Arsenal players stepped out first, red and white shining under the bright stadium lights. They walked in a single line, side by side with Stoke, toward the center circle where the officials waited.
The air vibrated.
Fans rose to their feet.
Scarves lifted.
Phones lit up.
The chants began again, rolling like thunder:
"FRANCESCO!
FRANCESCO!
FRANCESCO!"
Cameras flashed as the teams lined up beside the referees, hands behind their backs. The Premier League anthem swelled across the stadium, the deep orchestral tone merging with the crowd's cheers.
Flags waved.
Children in mascot kits tried to hold their composure while sneaking glances at the players beside them.
The announcer read the lineups, each Arsenal name met with huge applause.
"Number 9… the captain… FRANCESCO LEE!"
It was the loudest moment of them all. A roar so overwhelming that Francesco felt it through his boots, up his spine, into his throat.
He exhaled slowly.
Then stepped forward for the handshake line from referees and Stoke players.
Routine. Normal. But elevated by the weight of the day.
When the anthem finished, the teams began dispersing toward their halves.
Francesco and Adam stepped toward the referee with the kind of measured calm that came only from long experience with Adam from years of Premier League battles, Francesco from his own strange acceleration into football's highest pressure. The crowd was still roaring behind them, the Emirates pulsing like a living thing, but in the center circle the noise melted into a soft echo. Just breath, boots on grass, and the quiet clink of the referee's coins.
"Gentlemen," the referee greeted them, nodding at both captains. "Congratulations again, Francesco, on the Ballon d'Or. Now, coin toss."
He held up the coin between gloved fingers.
"Call it."
Francesco didn't hesitate. "Right."
The coin flipped, sunlight catching its spinning edge, before dropping neatly into the referee's palm.
"Arsenal ball. Kickoff your way."
Francesco gave a short nod, not celebratory that simply focused, accepting. Adam cracked a lopsided grin.
"Makes no difference," he muttered playfully. "We'll try to kick you anyway."
Francesco smirked back. "Try."
The referee stepped back, blowing his whistle once to signal both teams to take their positions. The Emirates swelled again with anticipation, the atmosphere tightening into something razor sharp.
As Francesco jogged back into Arsenal's half, Özil approached him with a small, knowing smile.
"Two touches," Özil said.
"Two touches what?"
"That's how many touches you'll need before you're through them."
Francesco laughed quietly. "You're crazy."
"Am I?" Özil said, looking smug as he drifted into his pocket of space.
Walcott, already bouncing lightly, clapped Francesco on the back. "Let's start strong, skip."
Kanté jogged past them, muttering in his eternally calm tone, "I win ball. You score."
That was Kanté's worldview, simple and true.
Sánchez slapped Francesco's shoulder next. "Captain, make them bleed early."
"Trying," Francesco said.
The referee whistled sharply.
Kickoff.
Arsenal moved instantly, as if a switch had been flipped. Xhaka nudged the first pass to Kanté, who immediately released it to Özil, whose first touch that light as breathing is turned him away from Shaqiri. Stoke's midfield merged into a frustrated line immediately, already forced to drop deeper than they intended.
The Emirates hummed with approval.
Özil drifted between Allen and Imbula effortlessly, stroking a diagonal pass toward Sánchez. Sánchez controlled, cut inside, and threaded a low pass toward Francesco that almost too quick to read, but Francesco dropped deep, shielded the ball from Martins Indi, and flicked it back toward Xhaka.
Xhaka took one touch and spread it wide with an elegant left footed sweep toward Bellerín, who was already sprinting into space.
Everything flowed.
Everything clicked.
It wasn't arrogance, it was rhythm. Arsenal were in rhythm, and Stoke City immediately felt it.
By the third minute, Arsenal completed twenty-six consecutive passes without losing the ball. Stoke players were already complaining, gesturing, trying to tighten their lines, but the control Özil, Xhaka, and Kanté exerted was suffocating. They forced Stoke into running without reward, chasing shadows.
At minute six, Shaqiri lunged at Xhaka near the halfway line, but Xhaka read it a full second earlier and spun out of pressure. The crowd cheered sharply.
"Too easy," Walcott muttered as he jogged back into shape.
"Don't say that yet," Monreal warned.
Özil drifted again, tugging Allen two steps out of position, just enough for a channel to appear. Kanté zipped the ball into him, and Özil, without needing to look, slipped a first-time pass between Stoke's midfield line.
It found Francesco perfectly.
He turned in instantly, instinctively. Indi clattered into his back but bounced off him, unable to shift his balance. Walcott was sprinting to his right. Sánchez sprinting to his left. The Emirates leaned forward as one giant body.
Francesco drifted left. Sánchez overlapped. A short exchange almost carved Stoke open.
Almost.
Muniesa blocked Sánchez's final pass and hoofed the ball skyward.
Van Dijk rose like a mountain, his header a calm, perfect reset back to Xhaka.
And Arsenal controlled again.
By the twelfth minute, Grant which the Stoke goalkeeper was already barking frantic instructions at his defenders.
"Close them! Don't give them space! Tighten! TIGHTEN!"
It didn't matter.
Özil's movement carved space from nothing. Xhaka's diagonals stretched Stoke left and right until their shape sagged. Kanté's recoveries stopped every counter before it started. Stoke could not breathe.
Then came the seventeenth minute.
And the Emirates, still buzzing, would feel the buzz turn into electricity.
The first goal was coming, as it started with something simple with Kanté intercepting a forced pass from Adam. He touched it forward to Xhaka.
Xhaka looked up, head high, reading the field like a map.
Francesco was dropping between Stoke's centre-backs again, tugging them out of position like a puppeteer.
Xhaka's eyes sharpened.
A tiny shift of weight.
And he launched it.
The pass cut through space like a blade with that perfect trajectory, perfect speed are sliding along the inside-left channel behind Martins Indi.
Francesco accelerated.
Not many players in world football could match him in that first burst of speed. Certainly not Stoke's defenders.
He was gone.
The ball met him in stride.
One touch forward.
Martins Indi lunged, too slow.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
A second touch, he opened his body.
Grant rushed out, desperate, flinging himself wide.
Francesco curled it around him with clinical calm, the ball bending beautifully into the far corner.
The Emirates erupted.
The type of eruption that rattled the metal railings and made loose programs flutter from fans' hands.
Francesco didn't celebrate wildly. He lifted both arms, index fingers pointed skyward, letting the sound wash over him. His teammates swarmed him with Sánchez leaping onto his back, Walcott grabbing his arm, Özil placing a warm hand on his shoulder, Xhaka grinning with the calm pride of a man who knew exactly how good his pass had been.
Wenger clapped once on the touchline. Just once.
Because this wasn't luck.
This was exactly how it was supposed to happen.
Arsenal 1–0 Stoke City
17th minute.
Captain Francesco Lee.
Then Stoke tried to respond with Adam who shouted for calm. Imbula urged his teammates to push forward. Allen tried to spark a quicker tempo.
But Shaqiri, who should have been their creative outlet, was boxed in by Monreal and Xhaka every time he received the ball. Allen was swallowed by Kanté's presence. Adam's long balls hit nothing but red shirts.
Imbula tried to drive forward twice, both times he was clipped cleanly off the ball by Bellerín or intercepted by Xhaka stepping forward with perfect anticipation.
Arsenal smelled weakness.
They pressed.
They pushed.
They suffocated Stoke's attempts to climb out of their own half.
By the twenty fifth minute, Stoke's defenders were visibly rattled. Martins Indi wiped his forehead repeatedly. Johnson kept glancing behind his shoulder like he could feel Walcott's pace breathing down his neck. Muniesa barked at his midfield, but only out of frustration.
And Francesco who is relentless, hungry, glowing with confidence are kept running at them, dragging them, breaking their shape.
It was only a matter of time before he broke them again.
And it happened at the half-hour mark.
The at the thirty minutes, Monreal collected the ball after a failed Stoke cross, cushioning it with his left foot before sliding it inside to Xhaka.
Xhaka shoved off Shaqiri's pressure and found Kanté. Kanté switched with a smooth, short pass to Özil.
Özil saw Monreal already sprinting again along the left flank.
He released the ball into space.
Monreal took it beautifully with stride, touch, stride, touch and lifted his head.
Francesco was at the penalty arc, losing Indi with a subtle backward step.
Monreal whipped it low.
Francesco darted forward.
One touch to redirect.
A second touch to kill the bouncing ball.
A third touch that was fast, ruthless which driven low past Grant.
The Emirates detonated.
A brace.
Thirty minutes in.
Sánchez punched the air. Özil gave a small delighted laugh. Xhaka lifted both arms. Kanté patted Francesco's back gently, as if to say of course.
The screen flashed:
Arsenal 2–0 Stoke City
30th minute, Francesco Lee (C)
Assist: Nacho Monreal
Francesco jogged back toward the center circle with a level expression, but inside he felt the fire rising that quiet, steady, powerful.
Stoke, however, felt something else.
Fear.
For the remaining fifteen minutes of the half, Stoke tried desperately to respond.
Arnautović attempted three separate runs down the middle. Van Dijk stonewalled him every time. The third time, Van Dijk didn't even tackle as he simply held his ground, extended one leg, and poked the ball away as if flicking lint from a coat.
Koscielny handled the central channels with ruthless elegance, stopping one of Imbula's through-ball attempts and immediately converting it into a counter.
On the flanks, Pieters and Johnson tried overlapping, but Bellerín and Monreal blocked them without hesitation.
Arsenal broke through Stoke's back line repeatedly.
Sánchez danced around Johnson.
Walcott outran Muniesa so consistently that Johnson had to abandon his position just to double-team.
Francesco nearly scored a hat trick in the 38th minute with cutting inside, ghosting past Indi, firing a curling shot that Grant just barely tipped wide.
Stoke's goalkeeper was already sweating heavily, shouting orders that no one could follow fast enough.
Grant saved another low attempt from Sánchez.
He denied a volley from Walcott.
He smothered a dangerous cutback from Özil.
He was drowning in pressure, but the only thing keeping Stoke from collapse entirely.
Arsenal didn't stop.
Their attacks came in waves from left, right, central, diagonal that made it unpredictable, relentless.
The Emirates crowd could feel a third goal hanging in the air like static.
But Grant refused to let it come, just barely.
And so, after a final minute of frantic Stoke defending, the referee finally raised his whistle to his lips.
Tweet.
Halftime.
Arsenal 2–0 Stoke City.
The players began their slow jog toward the tunnel, sweat soaking through shirts, breaths heavy, but minds laser sharp.
As Francesco walked off the pitch, the applause swelled again that not as explosive as the pre-match celebrations, but appreciative, charged, proud.
Sánchez slapped his back. "One more for the hat trick?"
"Let's win first," Francesco replied.
Özil smirked. "That means yes."
Van Dijk walked past, calm as ever. "Good positioning on the second goal."
"Good defending on all of theirs," Francesco countered.
Kanté simply said, "We control. We don't stop."
The tunnel swallowed the players in a wash of echoes with stud clacks, heavy breaths, little bursts of conversation that rose and fell like sparks. The Emirates crowd still rumbled behind them, that steady low thunder of a stadium convinced something special was unfolding.
Francesco pulled the collar of his shirt slightly away from his neck, letting the rush of cooler air seep into the steam of sweat beneath his chin. His lungs still burned a little in that good way with the way that told a footballer he was in the beating heart of a match, not just participating in it but dictating it. He could still feel the vibration of the crowd from the moments after his brace, still hear the commentator's voice somewhere in the distance of memory even though he hadn't heard it live.
Francesco Lee… unstoppable…
As they neared the dressing room, Wenger walked with that same quiet authority he had always had that not loud, not flamboyant, just an aura of thoughtfulness that steadied the entire squad. He didn't speak until every player had settled onto the benches, boots unlaced just enough to breathe, water bottles opened.
Walcott slumped next to Francesco, chest rising and falling rapidly. "Feels like they're made of cardboard out there," he muttered with a grin.
"They're still dangerous on set pieces," Monreal reminded, ever the responsible one.
Van Dijk was sitting like a statue, barely winded, wiping a minimal sheen of sweat off his temple. "We keep the line high," he said calmly. "They panic when we compress them."
Wenger finally stepped into the center of the room, lifting both hands slightly that not commanding silence, just inviting it. It came instantly.
His voice was soft, but every syllable landed with the weight of a hammer.
"Excellent first half," he began, looking around at all of them with that familiar mixture of affection and expectation. "You controlled the rhythm, you controlled the ball, and you controlled them. This is our football."
Özil looked up, a small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
"But," Wenger continued, "Stoke will not accept this second half the same way they accepted the first. Mark Hughes will push them higher. He will ask his defenders to close the gaps faster. He will shout for physicality. They will try to force us into long balls. Do not let them."
Xhaka nodded first, instinctively. "We stay calm," he murmured.
"Yes, Granit," Wenger said, dipping his head. "Calm. Always calm. Even when they push… you do not match chaos with chaos. You match chaos with clarity."
Francesco listened with a stillness that felt almost meditative. This was his favorite part of football as it was not the noise, not the applause, but the quiet before the storm. The clear instruction that sliced through uncertainty.
Wenger turned to him specifically.
"Francesco," he said, voice gentle. "Your movement has been exceptional. Continue to drag their center-backs out of the line. Pull Indi wide. Force Muniesa to choose between stepping or staying. They cannot defend both you and the runners."
Francesco nodded once. "Understood."
"You have their attention now," Wenger continued. "Good. Keep it. Because Alexis, Theo, Mesut as they will have space because of you."
Sánchez cracked his knuckles, leaning forward with that restless eagerness he always carried. "Give me half a channel and I'll shred them."
Wenger raised a hand. "Yes, but pick your moments. And remember, we are not rushing for goals. We are searching for the right goals. If it must be 2–0 until the eighty ninth minute, then so be it. Discipline brings victories."
Kanté lifted his head. "We lock them, boss."
A few chuckles slipped out around the room. Even Wenger smiled slightly.
"Yes, N'Golo. Lock them."
He clapped his hands once with the signal that the talk was over, the time for thinking ended and the time for doing began.
"Now," he said softly. "Start fast again. Do not give them hope."
Francesco stood and retied his boots. His fingers felt steady. His heartbeat felt precise. The brace had filled him with confidence, but not arrogance. Hunger, not pride.
On their way back down the tunnel, Sánchez elbowed him lightly. "Two goals in thirty minutes," he said. "Feels like you're playing with cheats."
"Keep talking," Francesco replied with a smirk, "and I'll steal your goal too."
"You can't," Sánchez scoffed. "I'll be too fast."
Özil drifted behind them, chuckling. "Children," he whispered.
The roar of the crowd returned like a crashing wave as they stepped back onto the pitch. Floodlights brightened. The green looked greener. The energy shot through the air like electricity.
Mark Hughes was already barking instructions, his voice sharp and cutting.
"UP! Squeeze! Don't let them breathe!"
He pointed wildly at Indi and Muniesa, waving his arms as if he could shear the pitch in half through sheer frustration.
Wenger, meanwhile, stood with hands in pockets, coat swaying softly, face composed as a monk.
Two opposing philosophies in one snapshot.
The whistle blew.
Second half.
And immediately, Arsenal snapped back into control.
Kanté won the first duel. Then the second. Then the third.
Özil took the ball on the half-turn like he had strings tied to his boots.
Xhaka dictated tempo with quiet, devastating efficiency.
Bellerín burst forward like a sprinter with a secret.
Francesco felt everything aligning with the patterns, the pressure, the holes forming before they even opened.
Stoke pushed higher, exactly as Wenger predicted.
And that was their mistake.
In the 52nd minute, Sánchez cut inside and drilled a near-post effort that Grant punched wide. Walcott missed a narrow curler a minute later. Özil nearly slid a ball through three defenders in the 55th.
The third goal was coming.
Everyone in the stadium could feel it, a pressure in the chest, a tightening at the edge of hearing, the electricity of inevitability.
Then came the moment.
57th minute.
It began with Kanté again, because so many things that mattered began with Kanté. He stole possession from Imbula with such clean timing that the referee didn't even flinch toward his whistle.
He fed Xhaka.
Xhaka turned with the elegance of a man arranging a dinner table.
He clipped it forward toward Sánchez on the left.
Sánchez darted inside, beating Johnson with one shimmy, dragging Indi two steps too deep. Then, with a gentle brush of his toe, he slid the ball through the gap between Indi's legs and into space behind him.
Francesco was already sprinting.
There was no hesitation.
No pause.
Just instinct.
The ball rolled perfectly into his path, almost magnetic, as if Sánchez had read his thoughts before he'd had them.
Indi lunged desperately.
Too slow.
Francesco took one touch to open his stride.
The second to set.
Grant rushed again, legs wide, arms spread, praying for something to hit him.
The shot was ice cold.
Low. Precise. Delivered with the confidence of a man in complete control of his destiny.
It passed Grant's left boot by inches.
It kissed the inside of the post.
And it settled into the net with the softest whisper, that is a killer's whisper.
The Emirates detonated.
HATTRICK.
Francesco lifted both arms again, but this time he allowed himself a bigger smile that not arrogant, not boastful, but deeply, quietly joyful.
Sánchez leaped onto his back again, laughing loudly.
"You owe me dinner for that assist!"
"You owe me three for finishing them," Francesco shot back.
Özil arrived slower, smiling that gentle serene smile he only used when he was truly happy for someone. "Beautiful timing," he said softly.
Wenger clapped once on the touchline, the Wenger way of saying magnificent.
The scoreboard glowed:
Arsenal 3–0 Stoke City
57' – Francesco Lee (hat trick)
Assist: Alexis Sánchez
Stoke sagged. Shoulders dropped. Pace slowed. The fear they'd carried in the first half turned into resignation.
Arsenal didn't let up.
Only six minutes later, they carved Stoke open again.
63rd minute.
Özil drifted between Allen and Adam, weightless, ghostlike. Then, with a flick of his ankle, he sent Sánchez slicing into the box.
Sánchez didn't wait.
Didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
He smashed it low and ruthless into the far corner.
Grant didn't even try to dive.
4–0.
The Emirates roared with something bordering on disbelief as this was dominance of the highest order.
Sánchez sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees and pounding his chest, eyes blazing with that fierce competitive pride.
Francesco arrived seconds after him, grabbing him in a tight embrace. "I told you," Sánchez said breathlessly. "I'm too fast to steal from."
Özil approached next, tapping Sánchez's forehead with a soft laugh. "Good," he murmured. "Now breathe."
Wenger nodded approvingly with the fourth goal wasn't necessary, but it was the kind of statement Arsenal rarely delivered with such clarity. Dominance wasn't just on the scoreboard; it was on the pitch, in the body language, in the absolute certainty of control.
On the touchline, Hughes looked like a man on the edge of an argument he'd been losing for seven years.
He folded his arms, glared into the grass, then barked at his bench:
"Mame off! Peter warm up! NOW!"
Two minutes later, at 65 minutes, the substitutions happened concurrently.
Wenger turned to Sánchez first. "Alexis," he said softly, "well done. That is enough for today."
Sánchez looked like he might argue, but then he saw the kindness in Wenger's eyes and nodded. "Okay, boss."
Iwobi was already bouncing on his toes, eager, smiling, ready to bring his energy into a match already tilting Arsenal's way.
At the same moment, Hughes made his own move with Mame Diouf off, Peter Crouch on. The contrast between substitutions was almost comical. Arsenal brought youthful creativity, Stoke brought height and hope for crosses.
Crouch jogged onto the pitch like a tall, determined scarecrow trying to save a field already burning.
Iwobi gave Francesco a quick handshake. "Let's keep going, captain."
Francesco nodded. "We finish this properly."
And as the substitutions settled, the Emirates crowd hummed with joy, with pride, with the intoxicating certainty that this Arsenal, was something different.
The Emirates had settled into a steady pulse again after the fourth goal with the kind of pulse that wasn't chaotic but perfectly synchronized with every touch, every sprint, every decision on the pitch. Even with Sánchez gone for Iwobi, the rhythm of Arsenal's dominance didn't skip a beat. In fact, it seemed to grow stronger.
Kanté moved like a shadow across the midfield, intercepting a lazy attempt from Imbula near the halfway line. Xhaka immediately released him into a corridor between Allen and Adam. The tiny pocket of space opened like the seam of a door, and Iwobi, fresh legs, dashed into it like a spark of electricity. Özil found him instantly with a subtle flick that seemed effortless, and Iwobi rolled the ball forward, only for Johnson to lunge in and deflect it out. No matter. The message had been clear: Arsenal's machinery was relentless, unstoppable, precise.
On the far left, Bellerín accelerated with the ball glued to his boots. Each touch was a calculated surge, slicing Stoke's exhausted defense with every step. The crowd rose again instinctively as he whipped the ball into the box, the flight perfect, curling just ahead of Theo Walcott's run. Walcott timed it beautifully, a lean, powerful stride. He met it cleanly with his right foot, low, fast, and merciless.
76th minute.
Goal.
The net bulged. The Emirates erupted into an uncontrollable roar that rattled the stands. This time, Walcott ran toward the corner flag, sliding gracefully across the damp turf, a grin of pure exhilaration stretched across his face. Bellerín sprinted after him, slapping him on the back, sharing the unspoken joy of a perfectly executed team goal.
Francesco, still on the pitch, clapped his hands lightly, a nod of approval, though inside he was simmering with that quiet, focused fire. It wasn't his goal, but it was his orchestrating presence that had forced the defensive lines into submission, that had pulled Indi and Muniesa apart enough for the cross to find Walcott. It was the kind of influence that left a mark long after the scoreboard lit up.
The clock ticked toward the 80th minute, and Wenger made his tactical decision. Francesco and Walcott were summoned to the touchline, tired but unbowed, ready to hand their momentum to Giroud and Gnabry. Francesco removed his captain's armband briefly and passed it to Koscielny with a nod with a quiet transfer of responsibility.
"Good work," Wenger said, his voice calm, measured, carrying the weight of appreciation rather than ceremony. "Keep them sharp from the bench. Observe. Learn."
Francesco smiled, slightly out of breath, but there was pride in the expression. "We'll finish the job from here," he said.
Walcott jogged off beside him, brushing the grass from his hands. "My legs thank you for this," he joked. "But the team… unstoppable today."
On the other side, Hughes was forced to react. He replaced Charlie Adam and Shaqiri with Sobhi and Julian Ngoy, hoping fresh legs might disrupt Arsenal's complete control, inject some energy, some unpredictability. But the confidence in Arsenal's midfield, led by Kanté and Xhaka, immediately absorbed the new threat, nullifying any attempt at rebalancing.
The ball moved with machine like precision. Iwobi, now central in the attacking midfield role, linked seamlessly with Gnabry on the right flank, who had replaced Walcott. They exchanged quick passes, probing, teasing, forcing mistakes, opening tiny spaces. A small lapse from Martins Indi, a misjudged run, and the moment arrived.
85th minute.
Iwobi collected a perfectly weighted pass from Gnabry, steadying himself with a quick glance up. He spotted the faintest gap between Indi and Muniesa that enough, to give a gentle touch, one motion, a strike that was deceptively soft but sharp, and the ball slid under Grant's desperate lunge. Goal. Arsenal 6–0.
The crowd exploded, some leaping from their seats, others embracing strangers in sheer disbelief at the spectacle. Iwobi ran toward the dugout, arms aloft, celebrating with teammates who had already run off the pitch to high-five him. Every Arsenal player on the field, from the fresh substitutes to the ones who had endured the full 85 minutes joined in a brief, joyous celebration, a moment of pure unity before returning to their positions.
Even in the midst of celebration, the team's discipline remained. The ref blew the whistle once more, crisp and final, signaling the end of the match. The scoreboard glared back the truth:
Arsenal 6–0 Stoke City
The players jogged toward the center circle together, smiling, laughing, some clapping toward the supporters. Francesco, now off the pitch and leaning against the advertising boards, let the sight wash over him. The fans were still chanting his name, echoing through the stadium with that persistent, unwavering devotion that had carried him through so many moments in his career. He allowed himself a small, satisfied grin. Not for the goals he had scored, though the hat-trick felt sweet and necessary but for the orchestration, the domination, the execution of the football they had worked for all season.
Wenger walked slowly toward his players, hands behind his back, eyes sweeping over them. There were smiles, nods, quiet murmurs of satisfaction. He addressed the team briefly, the words deliberate, careful:
"Excellent work. Not just the goals, but the control, the discipline, the patience. That is how we build football, how we demonstrate our philosophy. Each of you played a role in this victory. Remember it. Study it. Grow from it."
Francesco, Iwobi, Walcott, Sánchez, Özil, Xhaka, Kanté, Bellerín, Monreal, Van Dijk, Koscielny as each one received a nod, a word, a brief smile that carried volumes. For Francesco, it felt like validation not only of individual brilliance but of leadership, of influence, of the quiet work behind the scenes that allowed the team to shine collectively.
The players began trickling back into the dressing room, still buzzing, still high from the absolute dominance. There was laughter now, teasing, the kind that comes after a performance so commanding that the stress, the tension, the uncertainty simply evaporates.
Walcott threw his arm around Iwobi. "One day, you're going to break defenders like this every week," he said, grinning.
Iwobi laughed, cheeks flushed from exertion and adrenaline. "If I even get half the chances Francesco makes me see, I'll be happy."
Francesco, sitting off to the side, quietly stretched his legs, letting the sweat drip, listening to the chatter. His mind replayed each movement, each sprint, each assist, each goal. It was methodical, almost surgical. But there was also joy, raw and unpolished, the kind that filled his chest and made him grateful to wear the Arsenal shirt.
Özil leaned back, a small smirk forming. "It wasn't just the three goals, you know," he said softly. "It was how we made them feel every second. That is why it's 6–0. Not luck. Not coincidence. Football."
Kanté simply smiled, the smallest movement, a quiet acknowledgment that they had been dominant, complete, and undefeated in spirit that afternoon.
Even Wenger allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, leaning back in his chair, scanning his team. It wasn't just the scoreline. It was the method, the control, the execution of their plan from the first whistle to the last. That was the lesson, the philosophy and in that moment, with the players radiant and alive with energy, it had been delivered perfectly.
Francesco finally exhaled deeply, leaning back againts the bench. A hat-trick, commanding the game, orchestrating attacks, inspiring the team and yet, he wasn't lost in ego. He knew this performance, this moment, was a team victory as much as it was personal brilliance. The ball had danced at his feet, but it was the passing, the movement, the understanding, the discipline that made everything possible.
He glanced toward the locker of Sánchez and Walcott, exchanged nods of mutual respect, a quiet celebration of what they had accomplished together. The Arsenal dressing room was alive with joy, with laughter, with the warmth of victory earned not just by talent, but by intelligence, teamwork, and an unbreakable understanding of each other's movements.
________________________________________________
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: 22
Goal: 33
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9