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Francesco took another sip of coffee, steadying himself. Whatever came next, he knew one thing for certain. He was exactly where he was meant to be.
The days that followed Wembley slipped past in a blur that felt both slow and impossibly fast.
Recovery sessions. Tactical meetings. Media obligations that came in steady waves. Messages from friends, family, people Francesco hadn't heard from in years, all wanting a piece of the moment, a word, a reply, a connection to something that felt bigger than all of them.
But underneath it all, threaded through every conversation and every training drill, there was something else waiting.
April 30th.
White Hart Lane.
The North London Derby.
It arrived the way derbies always did that not with fanfare, but with pressure. A tightening in the chest. A sharpened edge in training. Jokes that carried just a bit more bite. Tackles that came in just a fraction harder than usual.
Sunday morning broke grey and heavy, the sky hanging low over London Colney as the squad gathered for the trip. Francesco pulled on his headphones as he stepped onto the bus, nodding greetings as he passed teammates, but not really hearing anything yet. He dropped into his seat and stared out the window as the engine rumbled to life.
This one felt different.
Not because of the rivalry, though that alone was enough.
Because of everything else riding on it.
Top of the league. An absolute advantage, as Neville had called it. But advantages only meant something if you protected them. One slip, one lapse, and momentum had a way of changing shape.
The bus rolled south, traffic thinning as they moved closer to enemy territory. Conversation rose and fell around him. Alexis bounced a knee restlessly a few rows up, already wired. Özil sat quietly with Xhaka, the two of them speaking in low tones, heads close together over a tablet filled with diagrams and arrows.
Kanté sat across from Francesco, hands folded, posture relaxed in a way that was almost deceptive.
"You okay?" Kanté asked softly.
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Just… switched on."
Kanté smiled. "Good. Today is a good day to be switched on."
White Hart Lane announced itself long before it appeared from the tightening streets, the surge of police, the clusters of Tottenham supporters already gathering, scarves wrapped tight despite the mild spring air. As the bus turned the final corner, the stadium rose up in front of them, compact and hostile, noise already spilling out through its concrete bones.
Boos hit them the moment the bus slowed.
Francesco didn't react. Neither did most of the squad. They'd done this enough times to know better. The sound pressed against the windows, bounced off the glass, but it couldn't get inside.
The doors opened.
They stepped down one by one, Arsenal tracksuits sharp against the grey surroundings. A wall of noise greeted them, chants tumbling over each other, sharp and deliberate.
"Walker's a—"
The rest was swallowed by the general din, but the intent was clear.
Kyle Walker kept his eyes forward as he walked, jaw tight, shoulders squared. Francesco clocked it instantly, the way Walker's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the way he didn't look left or right.
Inside the stadium, the corridors were narrower than Wembley, the air heavier. This place had always felt like it leaned in on you, like it wanted you uncomfortable.
They reached the dressing room and the door shut behind them with a dull thud.
Silence.
Not literal silence ad there were still sounds, boots on floor, zips, the hum of ventilation, but the outside world cut off completely. It always struck Francesco how stark that transition was. Ninety minutes of hell waiting just beyond the walls, and yet in here, everything was controlled.
They changed quickly into training kits, the rhythm familiar. Taped ankles. Adjusted boots. Quick glances at phones before they were tucked away for good.
Then Wenger nodded once.
"Warm-up."
They filed back out, through the tunnel, and onto the pitch.
The noise hit like a physical thing.
White Hart Lane was already seething, stands packed tight, white shirts everywhere, flags snapping sharply in the breeze. Every Arsenal touch during the jog out was met with whistles and jeers.
Francesco took it in without really seeing it, eyes on the grass, on his boots, on the familiar ritual of movement.
They spread out for warm-up drills, passing in triangles, stretching, building heat. The ball moved crisply despite the noise, boots thudding rhythmically against turf.
Then it happened.
Near the halfway line, a small knot of Tottenham players had drifted closer than necessary. Francesco noticed it first in his peripheral vision with movement that didn't belong.
Words.
Laughter.
Kyle Walker was receiving a ball when one of them as Ben Davies said something just loud enough. Dele Alli smirked. Another voice chimed in.
"Still feels wrong, doesn't it?" someone said. "Wrong colours."
Walker didn't respond. He returned the pass cleanly, jaw clenched tighter now.
The words kept coming.
Mocking.
Personal.
Francesco felt the shift instantly. The warmth in his chest hardened into something else.
Before he could move, Harry Kane stepped in.
"Enough," Kane said sharply, placing himself between them. "Leave it."
Alli rolled his eyes. "Just a bit of banter."
"Not today," Kane replied, tone final. "Warm up."
At the same moment, Francesco's eyes lifted.
They met Kane's across the space between them.
It wasn't a glare.
It didn't need to be.
Just a look.
A message.
Handle it or I will.
Kane held his gaze for a beat, then nodded once.
The Tottenham players drifted away, the moment dissolving back into the chaos of warm-up.
Walker exhaled slowly.
Francesco jogged over, passing the ball back and forth with him once, twice.
"Let it go," Francesco said quietly. "Not worth it."
Walker nodded. "Yeah."
A pause.
Then Francesco added, voice low but steady, "If you want revenge… start today."
Walker looked up at him then, really looked at him. Something hard and grateful flickered across his face.
"Yeah," he said again. "Today."
The rest of the warm-up passed without incident, intensity rising as kickoff drew closer. Shots flew in during finishing drills. Cech barked instructions, gloves snapping sharply as he parried efforts aside. Alexis cracked one off the post and grinned like it was a private joke.
When the whistle finally blew to end the warm-up, there was no sense of relief.
Only focus.
They trotted back down the tunnel, noise trailing behind them like an angry tide, and returned to the dressing room.
This time, it felt different.
Sharper.
Boots were pulled on with care. Shin pads adjusted. Shirts laid out neatly. Francesco pulled his on last, sliding the red over his head, feeling the fabric settle against his skin.
Captain's armband.
He slipped it on without ceremony.
Wenger stepped into the center of the room once everyone was ready.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"We play our game," he said simply. "Not theirs."
He turned to the board and began.
"Four-three-three."
Francesco listened, eyes forward, every word locking into place.
"Petr," Wenger nodded toward Cech, "you start."
Cech inclined his head.
"Back line," Wenger continued. "Andrew, left. Virgil and Laurent, center. Kyle, right."
Walker's jaw set, his posture straightening.
"Kanté holds," Wenger said. "Mesut, Granit, control the middle."
Özil glanced up, eyes bright. Xhaka cracked his neck once.
"Alexis, Theo, stretch them. Width. Aggression."
Alexis grinned. Walcott bounced lightly on his toes.
"And Francesco," Wenger said, finally turning to him fully. "You lead the line. You lead this team."
Captain today.
The words settled heavily, but comfortably on Francesco's shoulders.
The substitutes were named next: Ospina, Mustafi, Bellerín, Cazorla, Iwobi, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Giroud. Each nodded, focused, ready.
Wenger finished with one last look around the room.
"This is not just a derby," he said. "This is a statement."
Silence followed.
Then the knock.
"Time."
They stood together, filing out once more, boots echoing against concrete as they entered the tunnel. The referee waited ahead, checking his watch. To their right, Tottenham lined up as well.
Hugo Lloris stood at the front, captain's armband snug around his sleeve. He glanced sideways briefly, eyes meeting Francesco's.
A nod.
Returned.
The tunnel felt tight, compressed, every sound amplified. Breathing. Shifting feet. The low murmur of the crowd bleeding through the walls.
The referee looked back.
"Alright, lads."
A pause.
Then the signal.
They stepped forward together, emerging into the roar of White Hart Lane, the pitch opening up beneath them, green and perfect and waiting.
Francesco lifted his chin, captain's armband firm on his arm, heart steady in his chest.
The roar didn't crest all at once.
It rolled.
Layer by layer.
As Arsenal stepped fully onto the pitch, White Hart Lane rose around them like a living thing as the stands packed tight, noise folding inward, every shout sharpened by proximity. This wasn't Wembley's vast echo. This was compressed, intimate, hostile. You felt it in your ribs.
They lined up across from Tottenham at the halfway line.
Handshakes came first.
Routine. Required. Loaded.
Francesco shook hands with Kane, their grips firm, respectful, eyes steady. Son followed, smiling politely, but his eyes already darted past Francesco, scanning space, calculating. Alli's handshake lingered half a beat too long, his smirk returning. Francesco met it without blinking.
Around them, cameras flashed as both teams arranged themselves for the starting XI photo. Arms over shoulders. Straight faces. The illusion of calm.
Click.
Click.
Done.
The referee called the captains forward for the coin toss.
Francesco and Lloris stepped out, the rest of the players forming loose semicircles behind them. The coin flicked up, spun, caught the light, landed.
Tottenham won it.
Lloris chose to kick off.
No surprise.
They wanted to set the tone.
The teams broke apart, jogging into position. Francesco drifted toward the center circle, rolling his shoulders once, then again, eyes scanning the Tottenham half.
Davies at left back. Vertonghen and Alderweireld central. Trippier right.
Compact. Disciplined.
Behind them, Lloris bounced lightly on his toes, clapping his gloves together.
Francesco glanced left.
Alexis was already leaning forward, coiled, jaw clenched, eyes bright with something feral. On the right, Walcott adjusted his socks, then looked up and caught Francesco's eye.
A nod.
Ready.
The whistle cut through the noise.
Tottenham kicked off.
Kane tapped it back to Dier, who immediately spread it wide. Son peeled off to the left, Eriksen drifting right, the two of them already trying to stretch Arsenal's shape. Wanyama dropped in deep, offering himself as a pivot, while Alli hovered in the half-spaces, looking to ghost in behind Kanté.
From the first touch, the intensity was unmistakable.
Tottenham pressed aggressively, Kane closing down Van Dijk early, Son harrying Robertson, Alli snapping at Xhaka's heels. Arsenal responded in kind, Kanté stepping in decisively, Özil sliding into pockets of space, demanding the ball even under pressure.
The first five minutes passed in a blur of collisions and half-chances.
A crunching tackle from Walker on Son drew a roar from the home crowd. A sharp turn from Francesco sent Alderweireld scrambling, only for Vertonghen to step across and clear.
The noise never dipped.
If anything, it climbed.
Tottenham's fans found their voice quickly, chants spilling down from all sides, sharp and relentless. And soon enough, they found their target.
"JUDAS!"
The word came first from one corner of the ground.
Then another.
Then everywhere.
"JUDAS! JUDAS! JUDAS!"
Kyle Walker felt it immediately.
You could see it in the way his shoulders tightened, the way his first touch grew just a fraction firmer than usual. Every time he received the ball, the chant rose again, louder, uglier.
Francesco clocked it from the center, jaw tightening.
Tottenham didn't just let the crowd do the work.
They added to it.
A late nudge from Davies as Walker released the ball. A shoulder from Son that came half a second after the pass. Alli trailing a foot across Walker's calf as they crossed paths.
Nothing blatant.
Everything deliberate.
At the tenth minute, it nearly boiled over.
Walker intercepted a pass and surged forward, head up, Walcott sprinting ahead of him. Just as he released the ball, Eriksen clipped his heel from behind.
Walker went down hard.
The whistle blew.
But before the referee could even raise his arm, Walker was already back on his feet, shoving Eriksen in the chest.
Eriksen shoved back.
Davies joined.
Xhaka was there in a flash, arm across Walker's chest. Kanté slipped in from the other side, calm but firm, separating bodies. Francesco jogged over, placing himself squarely between Walker and Alli, eyes never leaving the Tottenham midfielder.
The referee barked warnings.
No cards.
Not yet.
The message was clear.
This would be allowed.
For now.
Play resumed, and the match settled into a tense rhythm.
Tottenham tried to dominate the ball, Dier and Wanyama cycling possession, Eriksen dropping deeper to help progression. Arsenal responded by compressing space, Kanté shadowing Alli relentlessly, Özil drifting just out of reach, always available as an outlet.
Francesco worked tirelessly up top, dropping in to link play, then spinning away, dragging center-backs with him. Sanchez cut inside repeatedly, testing Trippier, while Walcott hugged the touchline, using his pace to keep Davies honest.
But chances were scarce.
Every attack met resistance.
Every pass was contested.
White Hart Lane fed on it.
At the twentieth minute, Kane had Tottenham's first real sight of goal, muscling past Koscielny to meet a cross from Trippier. His header flashed wide, drawing a collective gasp from the stands.
Moments later, Arsenal responded.
Özil slipped a delicate ball through the channel for Francesco, who timed his run perfectly, shoulder-to-shoulder with Vertonghen. He got his shot away under pressure, but Lloris was quick off his line, smothering it at the striker's feet.
Francesco slapped the turf once, then got up, clapping his hands.
"Again," he shouted. "Again."
The tension tightened further.
Fouls accumulated. Complaints grew louder. The referee's patience thinned, his whistle punctuating the noise more frequently now.
Walker was fouled again.
Then again.
Each time, the chant returned, louder, more venomous.
Francesco jogged back toward him after the third, placing a hand briefly on Walker's shoulder.
"Eyes up," he said quietly. "They want you angry."
Walker nodded, breathing hard. "I know."
But knowing didn't make it easier.
At the twenty-seventh minute, everything changed.
It started deep.
Kanté intercepted a loose pass from Alli just inside Arsenal's half, his timing impeccable as always. In one smooth motion, he turned away from pressure and fed Özil.
Özil didn't dwell.
One touch.
Then a glance.
Then the pass.
He slid it wide to Walker, who had space for the first time all match.
The chant surged as Walker took his first touch.
He didn't hesitate.
He drove forward.
Davies backed off, wary of Walcott's pace on the outside. Walker feinted right, then cut inside, head up.
Francesco saw it instantly.
He peeled away from Alderweireld, darting between the center-backs, pointing once toward the near post.
Walker delivered.
Low.
Fast.
Perfect.
The ball sliced through the six-yard box, skimming the turf.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch.
Right foot.
Across Lloris.
The net rippled.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then.
Eruption.
The away end exploded, red shirts bouncing, arms thrown skyward. Francesco slid on his knees toward the corner, fists clenched, roar tearing out of his chest.
He was swarmed instantly.
Alexis leapt onto his back. Walcott wrapped him from the side. Özil arrived last, smiling, hands raised.
Walker jogged over more slowly.
Francesco broke free just long enough to grab him by the shoulders.
"That's how," he said, shouting over the noise. "That's how you answer."
Walker's face cracked into a grin that tight, fierce, satisfied.
The home crowd responded with fury.
Boos rained down. Gestures followed. The chant returned, uglier now, but it lacked its earlier confidence.
Tottenham kicked off again, visibly rattled.
Arsenal smelled it.
They pressed higher now, Sanchez snapping into tackles, Walcott chasing everything, Kanté everywhere at once. The ball moved with more assurance, more belief.
Tottenham tried to reassert control, Eriksen dropping deeper, Kane drifting wide to escape Koscielny's attention. But Arsenal's shape held firm, Van Dijk commanding the back line with calm authority.
As halftime approached, Tottenham grew increasingly frustrated.
Fouls came harder.
A late challenge on Sanchez drew a yellow.
A shove on Xhaka went unpunished.
Then, at the forty-third minute, the moment came again.
This time, it was Walcott who sparked it.
He received the ball on the right, isolated against Davies. A quick drop of the shoulder, a burst of pace, and he was past him, driving toward the box.
Vertonghen stepped out to cover.
Walcott clipped the ball inside.
Walker was already there.
Unmarked.
The chant faltered, confusion rippling through the stands as Walker took his touch, set himself.
He didn't blast it.
He placed it.
Low.
Inside the far post.
Goal.
For half a heartbeat, the stadium didn't know how to react.
Then it detonated.
But this time, not joy.
Anger.
Walker turned immediately toward the Tottenham end.
He didn't run.
He didn't slide.
He stood still.
He spread his arms.
And he smiled.
The reaction was instant.
Abuse poured down. Objects flew with plastic cups, rolled-up programs. Tottenham players surged toward him, Alli shouting, Davies pointing furiously.
Francesco was there in a flash, stepping between Walker and the onrushing white shirts.
"Back," he barked, arm out, captain's authority unmistakable.
The referee sprinted in, brandishing a yellow card toward Walker, toward Alli, toward anyone still shouting.
Walker didn't argue.
He just kept smiling.
As they walked back for the restart, Francesco leaned in close.
"You good?" he asked.
Walker nodded, eyes blazing. "Never better."
The final minutes of the half passed in a haze of whistles and jeers, Arsenal expertly managing the chaos, seeing out the clock.
When the referee finally blew for halftime, the reaction was mixed.
Boos from the home crowd.
Cheers from the away end.
Relief and satisfaction on red faces.
They walked back down the tunnel together, Francesco's arm briefly draped over Walker's shoulders as the noise followed them inside.
In the dressing room, the door shut, cutting the sound cleanly away.
Wenger waited until everyone was seated.
Then he spoke.
"Good," he said simply.
Not praise.
Assessment.
"They will come harder," he continued. "They have to."
He gestured toward the board.
"We stay compact. We stay calm. They will leave space."
His eyes met Francesco's.
"And when they do, we punish them."
The players nodded, breathing slowing, focus sharpening once more.
The dressing room stayed quiet for a moment after Wenger finished.
Not tense.
Not loud.
Just focused.
The kind of silence that only exists when everyone in the room understands exactly where they are and what's coming next.
Francesco sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, boots planted, captain's armband still snug around his arm. Sweat cooled on his skin now, heartbeat steadying after the chaos of the first half. Around him, players drank water, adjusted tape, rolled shoulders, but no one joked. No one drifted.
White Hart Lane pressed in from the other side of the walls, restless, angry, waiting for blood.
Wenger broke the quiet again, softer now.
"They will push," he said. "Early. Fast. Direct."
He tapped the board where Kane and Son were marked.
"Kane drops. Son runs beyond. Eriksen looks for the second ball. We cannot lose concentration."
Kanté nodded immediately. Xhaka murmured something under his breath, already visualising patterns. Van Dijk leaned back against the lockers, arms folded, eyes calm.
Wenger's gaze swept the room one last time.
"Control does not mean slow," he said. "It means intelligent."
Then he stepped back.
"That is all."
The knock came again.
Second half.
They stood together, filed back into the tunnel, the roar swelling with every step closer to the light. Tottenham emerged from their dressing room at the same time, bodies tighter, energy sharper, urgency written across every face.
Pochettino stood at the edge of the technical area, arms folded, jaw set.
He had made his choice.
They would gamble.
The referee checked his watch.
A final glance.
The whistle blew.
The second half began.
Tottenham came out exactly as Wenger had predicted.
Fast.
Relentless.
Within seconds, the ball was pushed forward with intent, Dier driving it into Kane's feet, Son immediately spinning off his shoulder. Arsenal dropped as a unit, Robertson and Walker tucking in, Kanté sitting deeper than before, reading danger before it fully formed.
For the first five minutes, it felt like siege football.
Tottenham pressed high, the crowd roaring them on, every Arsenal touch greeted with whistles, every Spurs pass met with anticipation. Eriksen floated between lines now, no longer hugging the right, drifting centrally to overload midfield.
Arsenal responded by slowing the game.
Deliberately.
Cech took an extra second on the ball. Van Dijk rolled it wide instead of forward. Xhaka recycled possession, back to Koscielny, then out again. Özil dropped deeper, offering himself, calming things with his first touch.
Francesco played his part too.
He checked back into midfield, received under pressure, laid it off cleanly, then spun and ran again, dragging Alderweireld with him even when the ball didn't follow. He could feel Tottenham's nerves, the way their defensive line twitched, unsure whether to step or drop.
But Tottenham were dangerous.
Too dangerous to relax.
At the fifty-first minute, Eriksen slipped a clever ball through for Alli, who had ghosted beyond Kanté for just a moment. Cech was quick off his line, spreading himself wide, forcing the shot wide of the post.
The crowd howled.
Encouraged.
Arsenal countered almost immediately, Sanchez bursting down the left, cutting inside Trippier and unleashing a shot that Lloris tipped over the bar with strong hands.
End to end.
The match stretched.
And in stretched games, mistakes crept in.
At the fifty-seventh minute, Tottenham found their opening.
It began innocuously.
A throw-in near halfway.
Dier took it quickly to Eriksen, who had drifted wide to the right, dragging Robertson out with him. Son saw it instantly and darted into the channel left behind.
Eriksen didn't hesitate.
He slid the ball down the line.
Son was away.
Walker sprinted across to cover, Van Dijk shifting over, but Son had momentum. He drove toward the edge of the box, head up, options flashing.
Kane arrived.
Perfectly timed.
He peeled off Koscielny's shoulder, slipping into the space between center-back and fullback, invisible for half a second.
Son squared it.
Low.
Hard.
Kane met it first time.
Right foot.
Inside the near post.
Cech got a hand to it.
Not enough.
The net bulged.
White Hart Lane erupted.
This time, with joy.
Noise detonated from every corner of the ground, relief and belief flooding back into the stands. Kane turned away, fists clenched, roaring toward the crowd, teammates piling onto him.
Francesco stood just outside the box, hands on hips, chest rising sharply.
2–1.
Game on.
He looked back toward his defense.
No panic.
Van Dijk clapped his hands once, loudly, barking instructions. Kanté jogged back to the center circle, expression unchanged. Xhaka exhaled, then nodded to Özil.
Francesco raised an arm, calling everyone in.
"Together," he said. "Nothing changes."
But something had changed.
Tottenham had life now.
The crowd sensed it immediately, volume rising another notch, chants rolling forward with renewed venom. Spurs pressed harder, tackles flying in, every duel contested like it might decide the title itself.
Arsenal had to weather it.
For the next ten minutes, they focused on control.
Not dominance.
Control.
Short passes. Fewer risks. Drawing fouls when needed. Slowing restarts. Making Tottenham run, making them chase shadows just long enough to blunt the edge of their momentum.
Özil became crucial here.
He drifted wider, then deeper, then higher again, always available, always calm. He took hits, absorbed pressure, slipped passes into space that relieved the tension just enough.
But it came at a cost.
The game was draining him.
Wenger saw it.
He had been standing for most of the half now, eyes flicking constantly between the pitch and his bench, weighing options. Tottenham's energy was still high, but cracks were beginning to show. Their fullbacks pushed higher. Wanyama was tiring. Dier was being dragged out of position more often.
Space was opening.
At the sixty-eighth minute, Wenger made his move.
"Mesut," he called. "Theo."
Özil looked over, nodded once, and jogged toward the touchline, already pulling his gloves off. Walcott followed, breathing hard, sweat-soaked, but still buzzing.
From the bench, Santi Cazorla stood, rolling his shoulders, that familiar mischievous calm about him. Alongside him, Serge Gnabry bounced lightly on his toes, eyes bright, hungry.
The board went up.
Two changes.
Arsenal.
Özil off. Cazorla on.
Walcott off. Gnabry on.
At the same moment, Pochettino reacted.
He turned sharply and beckoned Son over.
Son jogged off to applause from the home crowd, having given everything.
Vincent Janssen stripped off his training top and stepped forward.
Fresh legs.
More physicality.
A statement of intent.
As the substitutions were made, Francesco jogged past Özil, tapping him lightly on the chest.
"Good shift," he said.
Özil smiled tiredly. "Finish it."
Cazorla took up position immediately, slotting into midfield with Xhaka, Kanté anchoring behind them. Gnabry drifted to the right, stretching the pitch again, his pace instantly demanding attention.
Francesco glanced around as play restarted.
The shape was different now.
More control in midfield.
More unpredictability out wide.
Tottenham noticed it too.
The next phase of the match hovered delicately between explosion and collapse.
White Hart Lane was still loud, still hostile, but the certainty had gone again. Arsenal's changes brought a different rhythm, one that Tottenham couldn't immediately pin down.
Cazorla touched the ball for the first time and the crowd groaned as he danced away from pressure, hips swivelling, grin flickering across his face. Gnabry ran at Davies immediately, forcing him back, planting doubt.
Francesco dropped deep, received, turned, and drove forward, heart pounding, senses sharp.
The derby was alive.
Balanced on a knife edge.
And with over twenty minutes still to play, it felt like anything could happen.
The knife edge didn't dull.
If anything, it grew sharper.
Every minute that ticked by carried weight now that not just of the derby, but of the title race, of momentum, of pride. Arsenal's bench leaned forward instinctively, every substitute half-standing with each turnover of possession. Pochettino prowled his technical area like a caged thing, barking instructions in Spanish, hands slicing the air.
On the pitch, the rhythm had changed, but the danger hadn't.
Tottenham pushed with purpose now, but not recklessly. Janssen offered a different presence than Son had as he more direct, more physical that occupying Van Dijk and Koscielny in the box, freeing Kane to drift into channels again. Eriksen kept pulling strings, dropping deep one moment, popping up between lines the next, always looking for that half-second of indecision.
Arsenal answered with patience.
Cazorla became the metronome almost immediately. He didn't dominate with speed or strength; he dominated with angles. One touch, two touches, always on the half-turn, always offering himself. When pressed, he didn't panic as he smiled, pivoted, rolled the ball under his studs, and slipped away, leaving white shirts grasping at air.
Kanté hovered behind him like a shadow, sweeping loose balls, snapping into tackles, covering ground that shouldn't have been coverable. Xhaka sat slightly deeper now, spraying passes wide when the press came, stretching Tottenham horizontally.
And up front, Francesco worked.
Relentlessly.
He pressed Alderweireld, harried Vertonghen, dropped into midfield to clog passing lanes, then spun and ran again, lungs burning, legs heavy but obedient. The armband felt warm against his arm, a constant reminder of responsibility.
At the seventy-second minute, Tottenham came close again.
Eriksen delivered a teasing free kick from the right, the ball curling wickedly toward the far post. Janssen rose, Van Dijk with him, bodies colliding mid-air. The ball glanced off a shoulder and dropped dangerously in the six-yard box.
For a split second, chaos.
Cech reacted first, throwing himself forward, smothering the ball with both gloves just as Kane swung a boot. The whistle blew late, Kane appealing, the crowd roaring for a penalty that never came.
Francesco jogged back toward his keeper, clapping once.
"Good," he said simply.
Cech nodded, already resetting.
The minutes crawled.
White Hart Lane's noise fluctuated between hope and frustration, each Arsenal possession drawing whistles, each Tottenham turnover drawing groans. The sense around the ground was unmistakable: Spurs needed something soon, or belief would start to drain again.
And that was when Arsenal struck.
The seventy-ninth minute.
It began, as so many decisive moments do, with pressure.
Kanté intercepted another attempted switch from Dier, stabbing the ball cleanly away and immediately nudging it forward to Cazorla. Santi took one touch, then another, drawing Wanyama toward him, baiting the press.
Then, snap.
A perfectly weighted pass out to the right.
Gnabry was already in motion.
He took the ball in stride, facing Davies, and for a moment, everything slowed. The crowd sensed danger and tried to will Davies forward with noise, but Gnabry didn't rush. He feinted inside, dragging Davies with him, then exploded down the outside, pace eating up space.
Vertonghen stepped across to cover.
That was the mistake.
Francesco saw it instantly and peeled away, dragging Alderweireld with him, clearing the channel like a curtain being drawn back.
Gnabry cut the ball low across the face of the box.
Alexis was there.
Always.
He arrived like a missile, sliding in front of Trippier, right foot connecting cleanly, violently.
The ball smashed into the roof of the net.
3–1.
For a moment, there was disbelief.
Then devastation.
The away end erupted, pure chaos, limbs everywhere, voices cracking, red shirts bouncing in unison. Alexis leapt to his feet, screaming, veins bulging in his neck, fists pounding the air.
Gnabry sprinted toward him, arms wide, eyes alight.
Francesco slowed near the edge of the box, exhaling deeply, hands briefly on his knees before straightening. The relief washed through him like a wave that heavy, grounding.
He jogged over as Alexis turned, grabbing him in a fierce embrace.
"That's it," Francesco said into his ear. "That's it."
Alexis laughed, wild and breathless. "We kill it."
Tottenham's players stood frozen in pockets across the pitch.
Hands on hips.
Heads down.
Eriksen stared at the turf.
Kane looked toward the bench, frustration etched across his face.
Pochettino reacted immediately.
He spun, gesturing furiously.
Alli's number went up.
Then Kane's.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as Mousa Dembélé and Moussa Sissoko were readied.
Changes of tone now.
Energy.
Damage control.
At the eighty-fourth minute, Wenger made his own call.
He looked toward Francesco.
Then toward the bench.
A nod.
"Olivier," he said.
Francesco felt it before he saw the board.
His number.
He jogged toward the touchline, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hairline, senses still buzzing from the noise. As he passed the center circle, he slowed, scanning the pitch one more time as his team holding shape, the crowd subdued now, the game tilting decisively red.
Near the sideline, Koscielny approached him.
Without ceremony, Francesco slid the captain's armband off his arm and handed it over.
"Finish it," he said quietly.
Koscielny met his gaze and nodded. "I will."
Giroud clapped Francesco on the back as they crossed paths.
"Well played, mon ami."
Francesco managed a tired smile. "Go be annoying."
Giroud laughed and jogged on.
As Francesco reached the bench, the crowd's reaction split sharply with boos raining down from the home stands, cheers and applause from the away end. He acknowledged neither overtly, simply taking a seat, towel draped over his shoulders, eyes locked on the pitch.
From there, he watched it out.
Tottenham tried.
To their credit, they did.
Sissoko drove forward with power, forcing Walker back once or twice. Dembélé added steel to midfield, snapping into tackles, trying to reclaim some control. Eriksen continued to probe, but the urgency had dulled; the belief was leaking out of the ground with every sideways pass.
Arsenal were ruthless in their management now.
Giroud held the ball up beautifully, drawing fouls, relieving pressure. Cazorla won free kicks with little twists of the hips. Kanté never stopped running, breaking up attacks before they fully formed.
The clock ticked.
Eighty-seven.
Eighty-eight.
Eighty-nine.
The fourth official raised the board.
Three minutes.
White Hart Lane sighed.
Not in unison.
In resignation.
Those final minutes passed without drama, Arsenal content to circulate possession, Tottenham unable to summon one last surge. When the referee finally lifted the whistle to his lips, the sound cut through the night like a release.
Full time.
Arsenal 3.
Tottenham Hotspur 1.
For a heartbeat, everything froze again.
Then red exploded.
Arsenal players converged, arms thrown around shoulders, laughter and shouts mixing with exhausted breaths. Koscielny pumped his fist once, hard. Cazorla hugged Kanté, lifting him briefly off the ground. Giroud roared toward the away end, arms wide.
Francesco rose from the bench and stepped onto the pitch, clapping steadily, a deep, satisfied calm settling in his chest.
______________________________________________
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: 47
Goal: 75
Assist: 3
MOTM: 12
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9