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 he switched off the lights and followed her upstairs, the first night of 2017 stretching quietly ahead of them, full of promise, full of unknowns, and right now was exactly enough.
Morning arrived quietly.
Not with an alarm blaring or a rush of urgency, but with a soft, natural light seeping through the tall curtains of the bedroom, pale and winter-muted. The world outside was still, wrapped in that strange calm that always followed a big night. Even the house seemed to be breathing slower.
Francesco woke gradually.
For a moment, he didn't move. He lay on his back, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling, letting awareness return piece by piece. The warmth of the duvet. The faint hum of heating. The distant sound of a bird somewhere outside, tentative, like it wasn't quite sure the day had permission to begin yet.
Then he shifted slightly.
Leah stirred beside him, murmuring something incoherent and burying her face deeper into the pillow. Her hair was splayed messily across the sheets, nothing like the composed version the world usually saw. One of her hands rested loosely near his chest, fingers curled in sleep.
He smiled faintly.
New year. Match day.
That combination always did something to him.
Carefully, deliberately, he eased himself out of bed, making sure not to wake her. The floor was cold under his feet, sharp enough to fully wake him now. He grabbed a hoodie from the chair by the window and pulled it on before padding quietly out of the room.
The house was still asleep.
Downstairs, the lights were off, the living room dim and peaceful in a way that felt almost sacred after the night before. The sofa cushions were still slightly out of place. A single glass sat forgotten on the coffee table. Evidence of life, of laughter, of togetherness.
Francesco paused for a second, just taking it in.
Then he headed toward the bathroom.
The shower steamed up quickly, heat filling the space as water thundered down against the tiles. He stepped under it and let out a slow breath, resting his hands briefly against the wall as the warmth soaked into stiff muscles.
Match day always carried a familiar rhythm.
Shower.
Pack.
Leave.
But this one felt different.
First match of 2017.
First step forward after a year that had demanded so much from him.
He tilted his head back, letting the water run over his face, thoughts drifting that not to tactics or opponents yet, but to moments. The kiss at midnight. Leah's laugh. The way the room had felt full without being loud.
When he eventually shut the water off and stepped out, skin warm and tingling, his mind had settled into that focused calm he knew well. Not tense. Not rushed. Just ready.
He dressed quickly with training top, track pants, fresh socks, before heading back into the bedroom to pack.
Leah was awake now, propped slightly on one elbow, watching him with sleep-soft eyes.
"Morning," she murmured.
"Morning," he replied, grabbing his duffle bag from the corner.
She smiled. "Match day."
He nodded. "Yeah."
She watched him move around the room, methodical, practiced. Boots placed carefully in their bag. Shin pads checked. Training gear folded, not stuffed. He always packed the same way, the routine grounding him.
"You good?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said honestly. "Really good."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulling on one of his hoodies. "First match of the year."
"Couldn't ask for a better start."
She stood and crossed the room, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, resting her chin between his shoulder blades.
"Go enjoy it," she said softly. "I'll be watching."
He turned, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I know."
Downstairs, the house was slowly waking.
Sarah was already in the kitchen, dressed neatly, mug in hand. She looked up as he entered.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning."
"Big day."
He smiled. "Yeah."
Mike appeared moments later, stretching, hair still slightly out of place. "First one of the year," he said, clapping Francesco lightly on the shoulder. "Set the tone."
"I plan to."
Breakfast was simple. Toast. Coffee. Quiet conversation. Nothing heavy. Nothing tactical. That would come later.
When it was time to leave, coats were pulled on, shoes laced. Leah hugged him at the door, long and unhurried.
"Good luck," she said.
"Thanks."
He said goodbye to his parents next, hugs exchanged, words unnecessary.
Then he stepped outside.
The air was crisp, clean, carrying the sharpness of winter. His BMW X5 sat in the driveway, sleek and familiar, frost still clinging faintly to the edges of the windows.
He loaded the duffle bag into the back, slid into the driver's seat, and started the engine.
As he pulled away from the mansion, the gates closing quietly behind him, he felt that familiar shift.
Personal world fading.
Professional focus sharpening.
London roads were quieter than usual, the city easing into the first morning of the year. Francesco drove steadily, hands relaxed on the wheel, music low.
Colney came into view like it always did that familiar, unglamorous, deeply comforting.
Home.
He parked and stepped out, slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder as he headed inside. The building was already alive with movement. Laughter echoed down corridors. Boots thudded against floors. Voices overlapped in multiple languages.
"Happy New Year!" someone called.
"Same to you!"
He spotted familiar faces immediately.
Kanté, smiling shyly as always, already in training gear.
Xhaka deep in conversation with Mustafi.
Bellerín leaning against a wall, phone in hand.
"Captain," Xhaka greeted as Francesco approached.
"Happy New Year," Francesco replied, clapping him on the shoulder.
They moved naturally toward the changing room, the atmosphere light but purposeful. Music played softly from someone's speaker. Jokes were exchanged. But underneath it all, there was an edge.
Match day edge.
Soon enough, they were boarding the team bus.
Francesco took his usual seat, slipping headphones around his neck but not turning anything on yet. He preferred to feel the energy, to hear the low hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter.
As the bus pulled away, Colney fading behind them, the city began to close in again. Streets grew busier. Traffic thickened.
The Emirates loomed ahead, massive and unmistakable.
When the bus rolled to a stop, the familiar rush hit him immediately. Cameras. Staff. The faint roar of early-arriving fans filtering through concrete corridors.
They stepped off the bus one by one, boots crunching softly on pavement.
Inside, the dressing room buzzed.
Training kits were laid out neatly. Boots lined up. Shirts hanging in perfect order.
Francesco changed quickly, slipping into training gear, tying his boots with practiced ease. He glanced around the room at this group, this moment, this chance.
They headed out to the pitch for warm-up.
The Emirates grass was pristine, impossibly green against the grey sky. The stands were filling steadily now, scarves already visible, red and white spreading like a tide.
As Francesco jogged onto the pitch, he felt the shift again. The stadium energy, dormant but waking.
They stretched. Passed. Shot. Moved.
Muscle memory took over.
By the time they headed back inside, breath misting faintly in the cold air, his body felt alive and ready.
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere changed.
Quieter now. Focused.
They changed into match kits. Red and white. Captain's armband slid into place around Francesco's arm.
Arsène Wenger stood at the front, calm, composed, eyes sharp.
"Gentlemen," he began.
The room stilled.
"We play today not just a match," Wenger continued, voice even. "We play the first statement of the year."
He gestured toward the tactics board.
"Four-two-three-one," he said. "Petr in goal."
Cech nodded.
"Nacho. Laurent. Virgil. Hector."
Each defender straightened instinctively.
"N'Golo. Granit."
The midfield pair exchanged brief looks, understanding already there.
"Mesut," Wenger said, turning slightly. "You are free. You create."
Özil smiled faintly.
"Alexis. Serge."
Both wingers nodded, energy coiled.
"And up front," Wenger said, eyes settling on Francesco. "Our captain. Francesco."
Francesco met his gaze, steady.
"Lead them," Wenger finished simply.
The substitutes were named. Instructions clarified. Details sharpened.
Then it was time.
They filed out into the tunnel, the noise swelling around them, heavy and electric now. Crystal Palace lined up beside them, blue and red. Francesco stood shoulder to shoulder with Scott Dann, both captains exchanging brief nods.
No words needed.
The tunnel opened.
They stepped out.
The roar hit like a wave.
Formalities followed from handshakes, photos, the captains meeting the referee at the center circle. The coin toss. Final instructions.
Francesco glanced up at the stands one last time.
New year.
New match.
New chapter.
The whistle blew.
The whistle cut cleanly through the air.
Sharp. Certain.
And just like that, the first football match of 2017 was alive.
The Emirates rose with it.
A rolling surge of noise swept down from the stands as Arsenal kicked off, red shirts spreading across the pitch with immediate intent. Francesco felt it the instant his boots touched the ball for the first time. The hum beneath the surface. The sense that everything was aligned, body and mind moving in the same direction.
He dropped slightly to receive the opening pass, back to goal, Scott Dann tight behind him already. A familiar pressure. He absorbed it easily, laid the ball off first time to Xhaka, then spun away into space without breaking stride.
"Set the tone," he reminded himself.
Arsenal didn't waste a second.
From the first minute, the tempo was high, purposeful. Kanté snapped into a challenge near the halfway line, winning the ball cleanly and immediately shifting it wide to Bellerín. The right-back surged forward, head up, Gnabry already making the run ahead of him.
Crystal Palace barely had time to breathe.
Ward and Kelly on the flanks retreated instinctively, glancing inside for cover that wasn't there yet. Tomkins and Dann tried to hold a tight line, but it was clear almost immediately as they were going to be pulled, stretched, tested from every angle.
Francesco drifted left, dragging Dann with him.
Alexis Sanchez noticed instantly.
He darted inside, ghosting into the space Francesco had vacated, receiving Özil's pass on the half-turn. One touch. Two. A sudden burst of acceleration.
Tomkins stepped out to meet him.
Alexis chopped the ball inside, then outside, hips swiveling, defenders wrong-footed. The crowd rose in anticipation, a collective inhale as he unleashed a low shot toward the far corner.
Hennessey reacted sharply, pushing it wide with a strong hand.
Corner.
The Emirates applauded loudly, not for the chance missed, but for the intent. For the message.
Francesco jogged toward the box for the corner, glancing briefly at Alexis as they passed each other.
"Again," he said quietly.
Alexis grinned. "Always."
From the set-piece, Palace scrambled the ball clear, but only as far as Kanté, who immediately recycled possession. Arsenal reset, calm and patient, refusing to rush.
That pattern repeated itself over and over in the opening exchanges.
Arsenal dominated the ball.
Özil floated between the lines like a man untethered, constantly finding pockets of space that shouldn't have existed. Every time he received it, a Palace midfielder hesitated as he has to step up or hold position? And every hesitation was punished.
Cabaye and Flamini tried to help.
They had to.
Because Puncheon was being swallowed whole.
Time and again, Kanté and Xhaka boxed him in, closing passing lanes before they even opened. Xhaka dictated tempo from deep, switching play with effortless range, while Kanté buzzed around him, snapping into duels, intercepting passes that Palace players hadn't even realized were risky.
The effect was suffocating.
Zaha tried to drop deeper to get involved, but Monreal stuck to him like glue, timing his tackles perfectly. Townsend attempted to isolate Bellerín on the wing, but each time he did, Koscielny slid across seamlessly, shepherding him away from danger.
Benteke, powerful and physical, battled with Van Dijk at the top of the pitch. It was a clash of titans with strength against strength, but Van Dijk read the game superbly, stepping in front of him, winning headers, making it clear early that Benteke's usual route to dominance wouldn't be available today.
Francesco watched it all unfold with a striker's awareness.
He didn't rush.
Instead, he moved intelligently, constantly adjusting his position from dropping off the line, drifting wide, pulling defenders with him, creating angles for others to exploit. Every run had purpose, even the ones that didn't end with the ball at his feet.
At the ten-minute mark, Arsenal nearly broke through again.
Özil slipped a delicious reverse pass into Gnabry's path down the right channel. The winger took it in stride, cutting inside Ward with ease before whipping a dangerous ball across the six-yard box.
Francesco lunged.
So did Kelly.
The ball flashed across goal, inches from Francesco's boot, then skidded harmlessly out the other side.
Francesco slapped his hands together once, frustration flickering briefly across his face.
"Unlucky!" Wenger called from the touchline.
The pressure didn't relent.
Palace were being pushed deeper and deeper, their defensive line edging closer to their own box with every Arsenal attack. Flamini dropped almost into the back line now, trying to clog the space Özil kept finding. Cabaye shouted instructions, arms flailing, but Arsenal's midfield triangle was too fluid, too intelligent.
Özil, Kanté, Xhaka.
They moved like parts of the same mechanism.
One touch.
Two touches.
Switch.
Drop.
Advance.
Puncheon found himself isolated, chasing shadows, turning in circles as red shirts passed around him.
The Emirates hummed with appreciation.
Then, at around fifteen minutes, Palace finally managed a brief reprieve.
A long ball over the top toward Zaha forced Koscielny to retreat, Van Dijk shifting across instinctively. Zaha tried to cut inside, but Monreal timed his challenge perfectly, nicking the ball away and immediately feeding Kanté.
Within seconds, Arsenal were back on the front foot.
That was the difference.
Every Palace attempt to build momentum died almost as soon as it began.
Francesco dropped deep to receive from Kanté near the centre circle, back to goal again. Dann was tight, trying to be aggressive.
Francesco rolled him.
It was subtle. A shift of weight. A half-turn. Dann overcommitted by a fraction, and Francesco was suddenly facing forward, accelerating into space.
The crowd reacted instantly.
He carried the ball twenty yards, drawing Tomkins out, before sliding it left to Alexis, who had already peeled away into a dangerous pocket.
Alexis cut inside and fired low again.
Another save from Hennessey.
The Palace keeper was already busy.
Francesco jogged back into position, breathing steady, eyes scanning the pitch.
He could feel it now.
That sense of inevitability.
The goal was coming.
Palace were bending.
It was only a matter of when.
At around the twentieth minute, Arsenal built patiently from the back once more. Cech rolled the ball out to Koscielny, who stepped forward unchallenged. Palace tried to press higher, but it only created more space behind them.
Koscielny played into Xhaka.
Xhaka into Kanté.
Kanté into Özil.
The ball zipped between them with effortless rhythm.
Özil took one touch, opening his body, scanning.
Francesco saw it.
He checked his run, stepping away from Dann instead of attacking the box. Just a few yards. Enough to create separation.
Özil slid the ball into him perfectly, weighted just right, inviting him forward rather than stopping him dead.
Francesco took the pass in stride, just outside the penalty area, slightly right of centre.
Time slowed.
Tomkins stepped out late.
Dann hesitated, unsure whether to close or hold.
Flamini lunged from behind, a fraction too slow.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
He set the ball out of his feet with one touch.
Then struck it.
The sound was pure.
A clean, unmistakable crack as his boot met the ball flush. It flew low and hard, knuckling slightly as it arrowed toward the bottom corner.
Hennessey reacted.
He dived full stretch, fingertips straining.
But it was too quick.
Too precise.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and slammed into the net.
For half a second, the Emirates seemed to inhale.
Then it exploded.
GOAL.
Red and white surged to its feet, noise cascading down from every tier, raw and deafening. Francesco slowed to a jog, then spread his arms slightly, turning toward the stands as the realization hit.
First goal of 2017.
Alexis was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back with a shout. Gnabry followed, then Özil, calm smile on his face as he wrapped an arm around Francesco's shoulders.
"Beautiful," Özil said simply.
Francesco laughed, adrenaline coursing through him. "Perfect pass."
The rest of the team swarmed them with Kanté grinning shyly, Xhaka clapping him on the back, Bellerín sprinting in from the right flank.
He pointed briefly toward Özil as they broke apart, acknowledging the assist.
The scoreboard ticked over.
Arsenal 1–0 Crystal Palace
21'
The Emirates sang his name.
Francesco jogged back toward the centre circle, heart pounding, breathing deep but controlled. He glanced up at the stands once more, then toward the away end, then finally down at the pitch beneath his boots.
The noise didn't fade after the restart.
If anything, it grew.
Crystal Palace kicked off again, trying to reassert themselves, but the moment the ball moved, Arsenal were already hunting. Francesco stayed high this time, gesturing with his hand, directing the press. Alexis angled his run to cut off the pass back toward Tomkins, while Gnabry shadowed Ward, forcing play inward.
Palace tried to keep it simple.
They couldn't.
Kanté was everywhere.
One moment he was snapping into a tackle near the centre circle, the next he was already ten yards ahead, offering himself as an outlet, playing a sharp, safe pass and immediately moving again. It was relentless, exhausting to watch if you wore blue and red.
Francesco dropped a step, watching Cabaye receive under pressure.
Now.
He closed him down quickly, forcing Cabaye into a rushed pass that Kanté intercepted cleanly. The crowd reacted instantly, a roar of appreciation for the work before the work.
Kanté carried it forward, head up, calm as ever.
He slipped the ball into Özil, who took one touch and shifted it wide to Monreal. The left-back advanced, drawing Townsend with him, before playing it back inside to Xhaka.
Palace scrambled.
Flamini was already shouting, pointing, trying to reorganize a back line that had lost its shape. Dann and Tomkins stepped forward together, but that only opened space behind them.
Francesco felt it before he saw it.
He checked his run, dragging Dann with him again, this time toward the left half-space. It was instinctive now, almost unconscious. He didn't need the ball as he needed the defender to follow.
Gnabry saw the gap instantly.
He darted inside from the right, accelerating between Kelly and Tomkins, his timing perfect.
Kanté spotted it.
The pass was threaded, precise, weighted just enough to split the line without slowing Gnabry down.
Gnabry took it in stride.
One touch to steady himself.
Hennessey rushed out, narrowing the angle, arms wide.
Gnabry stayed calm.
He opened his body and slid the ball past the keeper, low and controlled, into the far corner.
The net rippled.
The Emirates erupted again.
GOAL.
Arsenal 2–0 Crystal Palace
34'
Francesco turned immediately, arms raised, pointing at Kanté as he sprinted toward Gnabry. "That's it!" he shouted, voice nearly lost in the noise. "That's it!"
Gnabry slid on his knees near the corner flag, fists clenched, joy written all over his face. Kanté jogged over, smiling shyly as always, accepting a hug that nearly lifted him off the ground.
"Well played," Francesco said, gripping Kanté's shoulders. "Perfect."
Kanté shrugged, still smiling. "Easy," he replied softly.
The goal felt like a release.
Not relief, confidence.
Arsenal were in control now, fully, undeniably. Palace heads dropped slightly as they trudged back to the centre circle. There was no argument, no protest. They knew.
From the restart, Arsenal managed the game intelligently.
They didn't drop off, but they didn't force it either. Possession was recycled calmly, side to side, stretching Palace horizontally now instead of vertically. Xhaka slowed the tempo when needed, then sped it up with a sudden diagonal that caught Palace flat-footed.
Özil continued to drift, popping up in spaces that made no sense. Flamini followed him for a few minutes, then gave up, choosing instead to sit deeper. Cabaye tried to press higher, but Kanté stepped past him repeatedly, turning pressure into progress.
Francesco remained active but patient.
He made near-post runs that weren't picked out, dragged defenders wide, dropped into midfield to overload. Even when he wasn't involved directly, he could feel Palace's back line constantly checking his position, constantly adjusting.
That was the real control.
Crystal Palace managed a rare foray forward around the fortieth minute.
Zaha received the ball near the halfway line, isolated against Monreal. He tried to take him on, pushing the ball ahead with pace, but Monreal stayed on his feet, guiding him toward the touchline. By the time Zaha tried to cut inside, Kanté was already there, toeing the ball away cleanly.
Townsend attempted a speculative cross moments later, but it sailed harmlessly over Benteke and into Cech's waiting gloves.
Cech held it calmly, taking a moment before rolling it out again, allowing the team to breathe, to reset.
The final minutes of the half passed without panic.
Arsenal looked comfortable.
Palace looked frustrated.
When the referee finally blew for halftime, the Emirates responded with sustained applause. Not just cheers, but appreciation. This was control. Authority. A team that knew exactly who they were.
Francesco walked off with the armband secure around his arm, breathing steady, sweat cooling on his skin. He exchanged a glance with Alexis, a quick nod. Everything was going to plan.
Inside the dressing room, the mood was calm but energized.
Boots were loosened. Shirts tugged at. Bottles passed around. Someone laughed quietly at something said near the benches.
Wenger stood quietly for a moment, letting the players settle, letting the noise from outside fade into the background.
Then he spoke.
"Good," he said simply.
The room stilled.
"Very good," Wenger continued. "But this is not finished."
He moved toward the tactics board, tapping it lightly.
"We have control," he said. "Do not give it away with impatience. Crystal Palace will try to react. They will push higher. They will look for Benteke, for Zaha on transition."
He glanced toward the back line. "Stay compact. No unnecessary risks."
To the midfield, he nodded. "You are dominating. Keep the ball moving. Make them run."
Then his eyes settled briefly on Francesco.
"And you," Wenger said calmly. "Continue to lead. You are pulling them apart. The spaces will come."
Francesco nodded once. "Yes, boss."
Wenger finished with a final reminder. "Respect the game. Respect the opponent. But impose yourselves."
The message was clear.
Finish the job.
As they stood to head back out, Francesco clapped his hands once, drawing attention.
"Same intensity," he said. "First ten minutes. Kill it."
A few nods. A few quiet murmurs of agreement.
Then they filed back out.
The second half began much like the first had ended.
Arsenal on the front foot.
Palace tried to show more aggression early, pressing higher for a few minutes, but it only opened more space. Xhaka dropped between the centre-backs briefly to help build, drawing a Palace midfielder out of position, and suddenly Özil was free again.
Within five minutes, Arsenal had already forced Palace back into their defensive shape.
Francesco nearly added a third when Alexis slipped him through on the left side of the box. He took a touch, shaping to shoot across goal, but Kelly recovered well, sliding in to block.
He clapped once in frustration, then jogged back, expression calm.
The pattern remained.
Arsenal dominated possession.
Palace chased.
Zaha managed to wriggle free once, cutting inside and firing from distance, but the shot flew high and wide, never troubling Cech. The Emirates barely reacted, confidence so high that even an opposition attempt felt harmless.
Benteke tried his luck with a header from a hopeful cross, but Van Dijk rose above him comfortably, nodding the ball back toward Xhaka.
Townsend attempted a speculative shot from range not long after, but it skewed off his boot, sailing well wide.
Four shots.
None on target.
Each attempt was met with polite applause from the Palace fans and a collective shrug from everyone else.
Arsenal, meanwhile, continued to probe.
Özil slipped Alexis in behind again, forcing another sharp save from Hennessey. Gnabry danced past Ward and forced a corner. Xhaka tried his luck from distance, the ball whistling just over the bar.
Francesco remained central to everything.
He dropped deep to link play, held the ball up under pressure, laid it off and spun away. He shouted encouragement. He gestured for calm. He applauded defensive work just as loudly as attacking flair.
Francesco clapped his hands once more as play reset, voice cutting clean through the noise.
"Stay sharp," he called. "Same rhythm."
Palace tried to push higher again, but it felt more like obligation than belief now. They had to try something. Sitting back and absorbing pressure had already cost them twice, and Sam Allardyce was barking from the touchline, arms chopping the air, demanding intensity his players were struggling to summon.
Arsenal, by contrast, looked settled. Comfortable. Almost serene.
The ball moved with ease between red shirts, triangles forming and dissolving across the pitch. Xhaka dictated from deep, his range stretching Palace horizontally. Kanté buzzed relentlessly, winning second balls, snapping into challenges, recovering possession before danger could even form. Özil drifted into pockets so consistently that it began to feel inevitable every time he received it that something dangerous would follow.
Francesco stayed patient.
He could feel his body working hard, lungs pulling in the cold air, legs burning lightly, but there was a calm in it. He had scored. He had led. Now it was about maintaining control.
Palace's brief attempts to counter were snuffed out again and again.
Zaha tried to isolate Monreal once more, but support never arrived quickly enough. Van Dijk stepped out confidently to intercept a pass toward Benteke while Koscielny swept up loose balls with his usual elegance. Bellerín surged forward at the right moments, but never recklessly, always with Kanté covering behind him.
Around the fifty-minute mark, Arsenal began to tighten the screws again.
Özil dropped deep, drew Flamini toward him, then flicked the ball first-time around the corner into Alexis' path. The Chilean exploded into space, running directly at Ward. He cut inside, feinted a shot, then slipped it back toward the edge of the box.
Xhaka arrived late, shaping his body.
The shot flew just over the bar, the Emirates groaning in unison before applauding the intent.
Alexis slapped his hands together, eyes burning. He wanted one.
Francesco noticed it.
"Next one," he called to him, jogging past. "It's coming."
It came two minutes later.
The build-up was patient, almost deceptively so. Arsenal circulated possession from right to left, probing without forcing. Palace's shape shifted constantly, defenders stepping out, then dropping, unsure where the danger would come from.
Xhaka received the ball deep in midfield, head up, scanning. Alexis drifted inside from the left, abandoning the touchline and pulling Kelly with him. That movement opened a channel.
Xhaka saw it instantly.
He stepped into the pass, striking through the ball with his left foot, a sharp, incisive delivery that cut through Palace's midfield like a blade. The ball zipped between defenders, skimming the turf, perfectly weighted.
Alexis burst onto it.
One touch to set himself.
Second touch to shoot.
Hennessey reacted quickly, rushing out, but Alexis was already committed. He drilled the ball low and hard, across the keeper, into the far corner.
Net.
The Emirates erupted again.
GOAL.
Arsenal 3–0 Crystal Palace
57'
Alexis wheeled away, roaring, fists clenched, veins standing out in his neck. He slid on his knees toward the corner flag, screaming into the cold air, raw emotion pouring out of him.
Francesco reached him first, grabbing him by the shoulders, laughing. "There it is," he said. "Knew it."
Alexis grinned back, breathless. "Always," he replied.
Xhaka jogged over, accepting a firm clap on the back from Francesco. "What a ball," Francesco said.
Xhaka nodded, expression composed but pleased. "He made the run."
The scoreboard told a clear story now.
Three goals.
Complete control.
Palace deflated.
From the restart, Arsenal eased the tempo slightly, not out of complacency, but intelligence. There was no need to chase a fourth immediately. The game was already where they wanted it.
Wenger glanced at his watch.
At the sixty-second minute, he made his move.
The board went up.
Francesco's number.
Gnabry's.
Özil's.
Giroud.
Oxlade-Chamberlain.
Cazorla.
Francesco felt the tap on his shoulder from the fourth official and nodded, already turning toward the touchline. As he jogged off, the Emirates rose to its feet again, applauding loudly.
He raised one hand in acknowledgment, face flushed, breathing deep.
As he reached the sideline, Wenger met him with a brief nod. "Well done," he said quietly.
"Thank you, boss."
They shook hands quickly.
Francesco took a seat on the bench, pulling a jacket over his shoulders, heart still racing slightly as he watched the game continue from the outside. It always felt strange, that sudden shift from being inside the noise to observing it.
Palace responded with changes of their own.
Benteke came off, frustration etched across his face, replaced by Fraizer Campbell. Townsend followed him, Ching-yong Lee taking his place. Cabaye was withdrawn too, Jordon Mutch entering to freshen the midfield.
It was damage control now.
The substitutions brought energy, but not momentum.
Arsenal remained compact, disciplined. Cazorla immediately began to influence play, his close control and calm presence slowing things further. Oxlade-Chamberlain injected pace down the flank, driving at tired legs. Giroud offered a different focal point up top, holding the ball up, bringing others into play.
Palace tried to press higher again around the seventieth minute, but it lacked conviction. Their passes were rushed. Their runs disconnected.
A speculative shot from Mutch sailed wide.
Another from Zaha, cutting inside onto his left, flew harmlessly over the bar.
Four shots.
Still none on target.
Cech barely broke a sweat.
From the bench, Francesco watched intently, clapping when Van Dijk won another header, nodding approvingly when Kanté chased down a lost cause and forced a throw-in.
The game settled into a kind of stalemate, not because Palace were threatening, but because Arsenal were content to manage.
Wenger stood calmly on the touchline, arms folded, eyes tracking every movement.
Time ticked on.
At eighty minutes, Arsenal began to press again, sensing an opportunity to finish the night with authority.
Cazorla dropped deep, collected the ball under pressure, spun away effortlessly, and drove forward. Oxlade-Chamberlain burst ahead of him, dragging defenders wide. Giroud occupied both centre-backs, backing into them, making himself impossible to ignore.
Cazorla slipped a pass into Oxlade-Chamberlain, who drove toward the byline and whipped a cross in.
Giroud met it with a powerful header.
Hennessey saved.
But the warning was clear.
Five minutes later, it arrived.
Arsenal built patiently from the back again. Xhaka switched play to Bellerín, who advanced before laying it inside to Cazorla. The Spaniard took one touch, lifting his head, seeing Giroud already beginning his movement.
Cazorla threaded the ball through the narrowest of gaps, splitting Dann and Tomkins.
Giroud timed his run perfectly.
He took it in stride, one touch to steady, then smashed it past Hennessey with his left foot.
Goal.
Arsenal 4–0 Crystal Palace
85'
The Emirates roared its approval.
Giroud punched the air, turning toward the crowd, teammates piling onto him. Cazorla jogged over, smiling broadly as Giroud pulled him into a hug.
From the bench, Francesco stood, applauding, a wide grin breaking across his face.
"That's it," he murmured. "Perfect."
The final minutes passed in a blur of red and white.
Arsenal knocked the ball around confidently, every pass cheered, every interception applauded. Palace players chased shadows now, their energy spent, heads lowered.
When the referee finally blew for full time, the noise was thunderous.
Arsenal 4–0 Crystal Palace.
First match of 2017.
First win of the year.
Francesco stepped back onto the pitch to congratulate his teammates, exchanging hugs, handshakes, words of praise. The armband was passed back to him briefly as he led the team in applauding the fans, circling the pitch slowly.
________________________________________________
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: 26
Goal: 42
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