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As they walked off the pitch, Francesco felt it clearly. The calm before the storm as the work was done, and the night would come soon enough.
The next day unfolded with a strange calm that never quite fooled anyone.
It was matchday, even if the hours before kickoff tried to pretend otherwise.
The morning passed quietly. Breakfast was taken in near silence, plates filled carefully, conversations brief and functional. Players drifted in and out of common areas, headphones on, tablets in hand, each man retreating inward in his own way. Francesco kept things simple. A short walk. A stretch. A few messages exchanged with Leah that nothing dramatic, just grounding reminders of normality.
By late afternoon, the light outside had begun to soften.
Madrid changed character in the evening. The heat receded just enough to make movement comfortable, and the city's edges sharpened under the glow of streetlights and storefronts. From the hotel lobby, Francesco could already sense it with the tension tightening, the atmosphere beginning to lean toward nightfall and noise.
The call came on schedule.
Team bus. Thirty minutes.
They gathered without fuss. Tracksuits zipped. Bags slung over shoulders. The familiar rhythm of preparation took over, muscle memory guiding them through motions repeated hundreds of times across careers and continents.
The bus waited outside, engine humming low, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk.
As Francesco stepped aboard, he felt the shift immediately.
This was no longer preparation.
This was commitment.
He took his seat near the front again, headphones resting around his neck but unused. He didn't need music tonight. He needed awareness. He needed to feel the moment arrive properly.
The bus rolled away from the hotel smoothly, police escort forming up almost instantly. Blue lights flashed intermittently, reflecting off windows and passing cars. Inside, the players sat upright now, posture different from the days before. Focused. Alert.
No one joked.
No one slept.
The three-goal advantage from the first leg hovered over them like an invisible presence. Not comfort. Never comfort. It was expectation. Responsibility. A line already drawn that Atlético Madrid would spend the next ninety minutes trying desperately to erase.
Francesco stared forward, hands resting on his thighs.
4–1.
A dominant first leg. Ruthless. Efficient.
But he knew better than anyone that Atlético Madrid did not care about numbers from a week ago. They cared about territory. Duels. Momentum. About making the night feel suffocating.
The Wanda Metropolitano did that to teams.
The bus began to slow as the stadium loomed into view.
Even from a distance, it looked imposing with angular, modern, glowing red and white against the darkening sky. The surrounding streets were already thick with supporters. Atlético scarves. Flags. Flares in the distance sending brief plumes of smoke into the air.
Noise seeped through the bus windows now. Chants. Drums. Whistles. A constant hum that grew louder with every meter.
As the bus turned into the secured entrance, the sound intensified.
Boos rolled toward them as soon as Arsenal's crest became visible.
Francesco felt it hit his chest like a wave.
Good.
He wanted it loud.
The bus came to a stop beneath the stadium's concrete overhang. Doors opened. Security formed a corridor. The smell of smoke, beer, and night air mixed together sharply.
One by one, the players stepped down.
Francesco was among the first.
The noise greeted him immediately with jeers, whistles, shouts in Spanish, faces pressed close behind barriers. He didn't look left or right. He walked straight ahead, shoulders squared, jaw relaxed.
This wasn't hostility.
This was atmosphere.
Inside the stadium, the corridors narrowed, echoing with footsteps and distant chants. The dressing room door stood open ahead, Arsenal staff already inside making final preparations.
Once inside, the door closed behind them, muting the outside world instantly.
The shift was palpable.
Quiet.
Controlled.
The room was bright, clean, almost sterile compared to the chaos outside. Red shirts hung neatly in each locker. Boots lined up. Tactical boards ready.
Francesco found his place and set his bag down. He didn't sit yet. None of them did.
"Training kit first," a staff member called.
They moved efficiently, changing without conversation, slipping into lighter gear. The routine grounded them, stripping away nerves through repetition.
Minutes later, they were back in the tunnel corridor, heading out for warm-ups.
The pitch revealed itself as they stepped through the entrance.
The Wanda Metropolitano opened up around them like an amphitheater. Stands rose steeply, packed already, red and white everywhere. The floodlights blazed down, bright enough to wash color slightly from the grass, which lay perfect beneath their boots.
The noise was constant now.
Not rhythmic yet as it was more restless, like a crowd inhaling.
Francesco jogged lightly onto the pitch, rolling his shoulders, bouncing once on the balls of his feet. He glanced up instinctively, scanning the stands. No friendly faces. No neutral sections. This was Atlético's house, and they wanted blood.
Warm-ups began.
Passing drills first. Simple. Sharp. One-touch when possible. Francesco felt the ball come off his foot cleanly, reassuringly. Alexis buzzed nearby, already intense, jaw clenched, eyes bright. Walcott stretched wide, testing sprints. Özil floated into spaces instinctively, always scanning.
Behind them, Cech went through his routine with dives, catches, calm as ever.
Atlético players emerged moments later, the noise surging again as they did. Gabi led them out, expression hard, focused. Diego Simeone stalked the touchline, already animated, already shouting instructions even though the match was still minutes away.
Francesco caught Gabi's eye briefly across the pitch.
No smile.
No nod.
Just acknowledgment.
Warm-ups intensified gradually. Short sprints. Shooting drills. Defensive shape rehearsed lightly. Van Dijk and Koscielny moved in sync, communicating quietly. Monreal checked his positioning repeatedly. Bellerín stretched, explosive even in preparation.
The minutes ticked down.
Eventually, a whistle sounded.
Warm-up complete.
They jogged back toward the tunnel together, applause and whistles following them. As soon as they were inside, the noise dulled again, replaced by the echo of their own breathing.
Back in the dressing room, everything became serious.
Match kits waited at each locker now.
Red shirts. White sleeves. Numbers bold.
Francesco stripped off the training top and pulled the shirt over his head, feeling its weight settle across his shoulders. He adjusted the armband carefully, sliding it into place with practiced familiarity.
Boots next.
He sat and laced them slowly, methodically, tugging each loop just tight enough. This was his final ritual, the last thing he controlled before the game took over.
Wenger stood at the front of the room now, clipboard in hand.
He waited until everyone was seated.
The room fell silent instantly.
"This is a Champions League semifinal," Wenger began calmly. "Second leg. Away."
He let that hang.
"We have an advantage," he continued. "But do not protect it. Play the game."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the board behind him.
"Formation," he said. "Four-three-three."
He spoke clearly, deliberately.
"Petr," he nodded toward Cech. "In goal."
Cech inclined his head once.
"Back four," Wenger continued. "Nacho on the left. Virgil and Laurent in the center. Hector on the right."
Each defender acknowledged him in turn.
"N'Golo," Wenger said. "You sit. You protect. You connect."
Kanté nodded, expression unchanged.
"Granit," Wenger went on. "Control the rhythm. Be brave."
Xhaka met his gaze, serious.
"Mesut," Wenger said, voice softening just slightly. "Find the spaces. Make them suffer."
Özil smiled faintly.
"Wide," Wenger continued, "Alexis on the left. Theo on the right. Stretch them. Hurt them."
Both men nodded, eyes already alight.
"And up front," Wenger finished, turning fully toward Francesco now, "Francesco. Lead us. Be patient. Be ruthless."
Francesco held his gaze. "Yes, boss."
Wenger gestured toward the substitutes' bench.
"Emi," he said. "Mustafi. Per. Aaron. Santi. Serge. Olivier."
Each name landed with meaning. Depth. Options. Trust.
Wenger closed his clipboard.
"This stadium will try to swallow you," he said quietly. "Let it roar. Stay together. When they press, we breathe. When they suffer, we strike."
He paused.
"You belong here."
That was all.
No shouting. No theatrics.
The silence afterward was heavy, but steady.
The knock on the door came moments later.
"Line up," an official called.
Francesco stood first.
He tightened the armband once more, then turned.
"Together," he said simply.
They rose as one.
The tunnel felt narrower now, darker. The noise from the stadium pulsed through the concrete, vibrating underfoot. They lined up behind the referees, shoulder to shoulder.
Atlético Madrid stood beside them.
Red and white stripes. Faces set. Eyes burning.
Francesco found himself at the front of the line, just ahead of his teammates.
Beside him stood Gabi.
The Atlético captain stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. Francesco did the same. Neither spoke. None was needed.
The referee glanced back.
A nod.
Then the signal came.
They walked.
Out of the tunnel.
Into the night.
The Wanda Metropolitano exploded.
Sound crashed over them from all sides with boos, cheers, chants, drums. The floodlights blazed down, turning the pitch into a bright, perfect stage.
Francesco felt it all hit at once.
The pressure.
The expectation.
The moment.
He lifted his head slightly, eyes scanning the stadium as they emerged. He could feel the armband snug against his arm, a quiet reminder of responsibility.
They lined up beside the referees at midfield.
The Champions League anthem began.
That familiar swell of sound rolled through the stadium, carried by speakers and voices alike. For a moment, everything else receded from the noise, the tension, even the advantage they carried.
This was Europe.
This was what nights were built for.
As the anthem ended, the players shook hands with the referees, then with their opponents. Francesco clasped Gabi's hand firmly, briefly.
"Good luck," Gabi said, voice low.
"You too," Francesco replied.
They released and stepped back.
The team photo followed quickly with Arsenal's starting eleven as half standing and half infront of them was bend their body together, arms linked, faces set. Cameras flashed. Then it was done.
Finally, the captains were called forward.
Francesco and Gabi walked to the center circle with the referee. The coin gleamed briefly under the lights as it was flipped.
"Call," the referee said.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Right."
The coin landed.
Arsenal kickoff.
Francesco nodded once.
As they broke away to take their positions, he felt it settle fully now.
Ninety minutes.
Maybe more.
Three goals up.
But none of it mattered anymore.
The ball would roll.
And then, everything would be decided.
The whistle cut through the night cleanly.
Sharp. Unmistakable.
For a split second, everything froze.
Then the ball moved, and the Wanda Metropolitano exhaled all at once.
Atlético Madrid kicked into motion immediately, exactly as expected and still somehow overwhelming when it arrived. Torres and Griezmann surged forward together, their movements complementary with Torres running straight and hard, occupying space and defenders, Griezmann drifting just off him, ghosting into pockets where danger bloomed quickly. Behind them, Koke and Carrasco exploded down the flanks, stretching Arsenal's shape from the very first touch.
The noise rose another level.
It wasn't a chant yet. It was pressure made audible.
Francesco dropped instinctively in the opening seconds, checking over his shoulder as the ball moved wide to Carrasco. Monreal shifted across, Bellerín tucking in slightly on the opposite side. Kanté hovered just ahead of the back line, already scanning, already calculating angles.
Atlético didn't waste time feeling the game out.
They attacked.
Carrasco drove at Bellerín early, pushing the ball past him and forcing the Arsenal right-back to turn and sprint. Van Dijk slid across smoothly, timing his movement perfectly, forcing Carrasco to cut back inside rather than burst to the byline. The cross that followed was hurried, looping rather than driven.
Cech was there.
He stepped forward, arms high, catching cleanly as Torres tried to jostle him mid-air. The contact was heavy, deliberate. The referee waved play on. Cech landed solidly, unfazed, and rolled the ball out quickly to Monreal.
That moment which is small, almost invisible are mattered.
Arsenal didn't panic.
They breathed.
Ozil checked toward the ball immediately, dropping into space between Gabi and Saúl. Xhaka positioned himself just behind him, offering a safer outlet. Kanté stayed disciplined, holding his ground, refusing to be dragged into the early chaos Atlético wanted to create.
The first five minutes were relentless.
Atlético pressed high, closing down angles, snapping into tackles, forcing hurried passes. The crowd responded to every challenge as if it were a goal. Simeone stalked the touchline, barking instructions, gesturing wildly, demanding intensity.
Francesco felt it in his chest.
This was exactly what Wenger had warned them about.
At the seventh minute, Atlético nearly broke through.
Griezmann slipped into the left half-space, receiving a quick pass from Koke and spinning away from Xhaka in one fluid motion. He slid the ball through toward Torres, who had peeled off Koscielny's shoulder.
For a heartbeat, the stadium held its breath.
Van Dijk read it instantly.
He accelerated, long strides eating up ground, and slid across Torres' path just in time, hooking the ball away with his right foot before Torres could shoot. The collision sent both men tumbling, but the ball rolled safely toward Bellerín.
The roar turned into a groan.
Van Dijk rose immediately, calm, composed, tapping his chest once as if to say: I've got this.
Francesco jogged back past him, meeting his eyes briefly.
"Good," he said, quietly.
Then Arsenal began to find their footing.
It started subtly.
A string of passes between Monreal, Xhaka, and Özil that slowed the tempo just enough to take some of the sting out of Atlético's press. Walcott stayed wide, pinning Filipe Luís back, forcing him to think twice before bombing forward. Alexis drifted inside more often, dragging Giménez with him and opening channels.
At the tenth minute, Arsenal finally threatened properly.
Özil received the ball on the half-turn, gliding away from Gabi with that effortless movement that made it look as though he'd simply stepped out of a crowd rather than escaped a tackle. He slipped a pass into Francesco's feet, just outside the box.
Francesco turned sharply, body between ball and defender, feeling Godín press into his back.
He didn't try to force it.
He laid it off first time to Alexis, who had darted inside. Alexis took one touch, shot low, and Oblak saved comfortably, dropping down to his right.
It wasn't dangerous.
But it mattered.
Arsenal were here.
Atlético responded immediately, surging forward again, Carrasco this time beating Bellerín cleanly and firing a low cross across the six-yard box. Griezmann lunged, stretching, but Koscielny slid in at full extension, clearing with his studs inches from goal.
The stadium erupted, half in frustration, half in belief.
Francesco clapped his hands once, sharply, turning toward his teammates.
"Stay with it," he called. "Together."
Then came the moment that shifted everything.
Fourteenth minute.
It began innocently enough.
Xhaka received the ball deep in midfield, back to goal, Saúl tight behind him. Rather than forcing the pass, Xhaka rolled his foot over the ball, pivoted, and laid it sideways to Kanté, who had drifted into space unnoticed.
Kanté took one touch.
Then another.
Suddenly, Atlético's midfield line was stretched.
Özil saw it instantly.
He glided forward, finding the pocket just beyond Gabi, hand half-raised that not calling, just offering. Kanté slipped the ball into him with perfect weight.
Time slowed.
Özil didn't rush.
He took a touch to settle, head up, scanning. Francesco had already started his run, peeling off Savic's shoulder, dragging Godín half a step with him.
That half-step was enough.
Özil threaded the pass.
It was perfect.
Not flashy. Not overhit. Just angled, precise, slicing through the narrowest gap between Savic and Giménez.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch to set.
Second touch to finish.
He opened his body and guided the ball low across Oblak, into the far corner.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then the away section exploded.
Red and white Arsenal scarves whipped into the air, voices cutting through the hostile noise. Francesco didn't slide. He didn't scream. He turned and ran toward the corner, arms spread wide, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
1–0.
5–1 on aggregate.
The Wanda Metropolitano reeled.
Atlético players froze momentarily, hands on hips, staring at the turf. Simeone spun toward his bench, shouting furiously, demanding an immediate response.
Francesco slowed near the corner flag, teammates converging on him. Alexis reached him first, grabbing him by the shoulders, shouting something unintelligible. Walcott arrived next, then Özil, who wrapped an arm around Francesco briefly.
"Same," Francesco said, breathless. "Same."
No celebration lingered.
They jogged back into position.
Atlético restarted with urgency bordering on desperation.
They threw numbers forward now, abandoning caution. Koke pushed inside more frequently, Saúl surged beyond Gabi, trying to overload Kanté and Xhaka. Carrasco and Filipe Luís overlapped relentlessly, forcing Arsenal's fullbacks deeper and deeper.
At the eighteenth minute, Griezmann nearly pulled one back.
A quick one-two with Torres opened space just outside the box. Griezmann struck it first time, curling toward the top corner.
Cech flew.
He got fingertips to it, just enough to push it onto the bar. The rebound dropped dangerously, but Van Dijk rose highest, heading clear despite Torres crashing into him mid-air.
The crowd roared again.
Atlético smelled blood.
But Arsenal didn't fold.
They absorbed.
They waited.
And then they struck again.
Twenty-first minute.
This time, it came from the right.
Walcott had been quiet since the goal, deliberately so, holding his position, waiting. When Bellerín surged past him on the overlap, Walcott drifted inside, receiving a diagonal pass from Xhaka.
Filipe Luís hesitated.
That hesitation was fatal.
Walcott accelerated, bursting past him with a simple change of pace. He drove toward the box, head up, options flashing before him.
Özil had ghosted in again.
Unmarked.
Walcott slid the ball square, perfectly weighted.
Özil didn't break stride.
He met it with his left foot, guiding it calmly past Oblak, who could only watch as the ball nestled into the net.
2–0.
6–1 on aggregate.
For the first time all night, the Wanda Metropolitano fell into stunned silence.
Özil barely celebrated. He simply turned, arms slightly raised, a faint smile on his face as teammates converged. Francesco reached him, gripping his shoulder firmly.
"Again," Francesco said. "Beautiful."
Atlético were rattled now.
They hadn't expected this.
Not here. Not like this.
Simeone was incandescent on the touchline, gesturing wildly, shouting instructions that barely cut through the noise of his own fans, now trying desperately to lift their team back into belief.
At the twenty-eighth minute, Atlético had their best chance of the half.
Carrasco found space on the left, whipping in a perfect cross with his first touch. Griezmann timed his run beautifully, arriving between Van Dijk and Koscielny.
He met it cleanly.
The header was powerful, downward, bouncing toward the corner.
Cech reacted instinctively.
He threw himself low, arms outstretched, getting a strong hand to it and pushing it away from danger. The rebound fell to Saúl, who shot immediately, but Monreal was there, blocking bravely with his body.
The clearance was greeted like a goal by the home crowd.
Atlético pressed harder still.
They poured forward in waves, desperate to find something to shift the momentum before halftime. Arsenal's shape bent but did not break. Kanté was everywhere, snapping into tackles, intercepting passes, covering ground that didn't seem human.
At the thirty-seventh minute, Torres thought he was through.
A hopeful ball over the top caught Arsenal momentarily high. Torres burst past Koscielny, sprinting onto it, goal in sight.
Van Dijk chased.
Stride for stride.
Just as Torres shaped to shoot, Van Dijk slid across, shoulder-to-shoulder, muscling him off the ball and poking it cleanly away. Torres tumbled, arms flailing, appealing for a foul.
The referee waved it away.
Francesco clapped again, louder this time.
"Keep going!" he shouted.
The remainder of the half settled into a tense rhythm.
Atlético attacked. Arsenal resisted.
Arsenal countered when space allowed, never overcommitting, never losing structure. Francesco dropped deeper at times, helping Özil link play, drawing defenders out before spinning away again.
As halftime approached, the crowd's noise became more anxious, less assured. They knew. Everyone knew.
When the referee finally blew for halftime, it felt like a release.
Players trudged toward the tunnel, sweat-soaked, breathing hard. Atlético's heads were down. Arsenal's were focused, composed.
In the dressing room, the door closed again, sealing them off from the noise.
Wenger waited until everyone was seated.
"Well done," he said simply.
But his eyes were sharp.
"This is not finished," he continued. "They will come even harder."
He gestured toward the board.
"Stay compact. Do not chase. Let them make mistakes."
He looked directly at Francesco.
"Choose your moments."
Francesco nodded.
The players listened intently.
The dressing room stayed quiet after Wenger finished.
Not tense. Not anxious.
Focused.
Francesco sat back on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, listening to the low sounds around him with the hiss of tape being adjusted, boots scraping lightly on the floor, someone exhaling slowly to steady their breathing. Sweat cooled on his skin, replaced by that familiar tightness as muscles began to stiffen.
He replayed the first half in fragments.
The early storm.
The first incision.
Özil's pass.
The way the net rippled.
Two goals up on the night. Six–one on aggregate.
Enough to kill hope for most teams.
Atlético Madrid were not most teams.
Wenger's words lingered.
They will come even harder.
Francesco lifted his head and looked around.
No one looked complacent.
That mattered.
The knock came again. The signal.
Second half.
They rose together, filed back down the tunnel, the noise growing with every step until it pressed against them once more, louder than before, angrier now. The Wanda Metropolitano had not given up. It never did.
Out onto the pitch again.
Atlético were already there, gathered tightly near the center circle. Simeone stood just beyond the touchline, arms folded now instead of flailing, jaw set. That was more dangerous than shouting.
The whistle blew.
The second half began.
And immediately, Atlético surged.
There was no pretense now. No patience. No careful build-up. They pushed their lines high, almost recklessly. Fullbacks advanced simultaneously. Midfielders flooded forward. Griezmann dropped deeper, linking play, while Torres stayed high, pinning Van Dijk and Koscielny back.
The crowd found its voice again, louder, sharper, every pass cheered, every tackle demanded.
Arsenal dropped ten yards instinctively.
Not retreating, organizing.
Kanté anchored himself in front of the defense, a constant presence, shuttling left and right, plugging gaps as they opened. Xhaka stayed closer now, more conservative, while Özil picked moments carefully, conserving energy, waiting for transitions.
Francesco stayed high at first, trying to occupy Godín and Savic, forcing them to stay honest. But within minutes he felt the shift. Atlético were throwing bodies forward in numbers that demanded response.
So he dropped.
Not deep, just enough to help.
At the 50th minute, Atlético carved out another chance.
Koke swung a cross from the right, deep and hanging. Griezmann rose between defenders, flicking a header toward the far post. Cech moved early, shuffling across his line, and gathered cleanly before it could drop to Carrasco.
The stadium groaned.
Moments later, Saúl tried from distance, unleashing a powerful strike that whistled over the bar. The noise surged again, encouragement layered with urgency.
Francesco clapped his hands, calling to Alexis and Walcott.
"Be ready," he said. "They're leaving space."
They were.
It was impossible not to.
Atlético's back line crept higher and higher, compressing the pitch, trusting their aggression to overwhelm Arsenal before counters could hurt them.
For a while, Arsenal held firm.
Minutes ticked by slowly, every clearance, every interception greeted with roars or groans depending on which end of the stadium it favored. The match felt stretched, pulled taut like a rope ready to snap.
At the 62nd minute, it finally did.
Atlético found their goal.
It came through sheer insistence.
Saúl surged forward from midfield, driving past Xhaka with brute force and timing. Kanté stepped across to challenge, but Saúl slipped the ball wide to Koke, who returned it first time into space behind Monreal.
Torres was already moving.
He peeled off Van Dijk's shoulder, timing his run perfectly. Saúl followed his pass, bursting into the box, then slid the ball across the face of goal.
Torres met it.
One touch.
Low.
Past Cech's outstretched leg.
The net bulged.
The Wanda Metropolitano exploded.
Red and white erupted in pure, unfiltered release. Smoke flared in the stands. Simeone leapt into the air, fists pumping, screaming toward his players. Torres wheeled away, arms raised, face contorted with emotion.
1–2 on the night.
6–2 on aggregate.
Francesco stood near the center circle, hands on hips, breathing deeply as the noise washed over him.
It was expected.
He jogged back toward his half as Atlético celebrated briefly, pulling his teammates together with gestures rather than words.
"Calm," he mouthed. "Calm."
The restart came quickly.
Atlético pressed even harder now, belief renewed. The crowd roared them forward, demanding more, sensing momentum. For a few minutes, Arsenal were pinned back, forced into hurried clearances, passes bouncing rather than sticking.
But in that frenzy, Atlético forgot something.
They forgot Arsenal's speed.
They forgot the space behind them.
They forgot Alexis Sánchez.
Sixty-seventh minute.
It happened in a blink.
Griezmann attempted a risky through ball near Arsenal's box, trying to thread it past Kanté. Kanté anticipated it, stepped in, and stole the ball cleanly. Without hesitation, he nudged it to Xhaka, who turned and lifted his head instantly.
Alexis was already gone.
He exploded down the left flank, leaving Savic scrambling to turn. Xhaka released the pass early, long and precise, dropping it perfectly into Alexis' path.
The counterattack was on.
Francesco sprinted through the middle, dragging Godín with him. Walcott accelerated on the right, timing his run to perfection, staying just onside.
Alexis drove forward relentlessly, carrying the ball thirty, forty meters, drawing defenders toward him. Oblak edged off his line, uncertain whether to rush or hold.
At the last moment, Alexis squared it.
Across the box.
Perfectly weighted.
Walcott arrived like an arrow.
One touch.
One strike.
Low and hard.
Past Oblak.
Goal.
For a split second, the stadium went dead.
Not silence, but shock.
Arsenal's away end detonated, red flares of sound cutting through the night. Walcott sprinted toward the corner, sliding on his knees, fists clenched. Alexis followed, screaming, veins bulging in his neck, pure adrenaline pouring out of him.
Francesco slowed near the edge of the box, chest heaving, watching it all unfold.
3–1 on the night.
7–2 on aggregate.
It was over.
Everyone on the pitch knew it.
Atlético's shoulders slumped visibly. Simeone stood frozen now, hands on hips, staring out at the pitch as if trying to will something impossible into existence.
Francesco jogged over to Walcott and Alexis, pulling them both into a brief embrace.
"That's it," he said. "That's it."
But even now, he didn't let it become celebration.
There was still work to finish.
Two minutes later, Wenger made his move.
The board went up.
Three numbers.
Francesco's.
Walcott's.
Özil's.
The crowd reacted immediately, a mix of whistles and applause, recognizing the symbolism. Arsenal were locking it down now.
Francesco glanced toward the bench.
Wenger met his eyes and nodded.
Job done.
As play stopped, Francesco jogged toward the touchline. Before crossing it, he slipped the captain's armband off his arm and handed it to Koscielny, who accepted it with a firm nod.
"Finish it," Francesco said quietly.
Koscielny's expression was ironclad. "Always."
Francesco clapped once, turning toward the away end and raising a hand in acknowledgment. The Arsenal supporters responded instantly, chanting his name, voices raw and defiant in enemy territory.
As he stepped off the pitch, Giroud replaced him, patting him on the shoulder as they passed.
"Well played, captain," Giroud said, breathless, eyes bright.
Francesco smiled faintly. "Go enjoy it."
Gnabry came on for Walcott, youthful energy injected into the flank, while Cazorla replaced Özil, calm and composed, ready to control tempo and drain the life from the match.
Almost simultaneously, Simeone responded.
Torres, exhausted and spent, was withdrawn, replaced by Gameiro. Giménez also came off, Thomas Partey stepping into midfield to add steel and late runs.
The chess moves continued, but the board had already been tilted decisively.
From the bench, Francesco finally allowed himself to breathe.
He sat down slowly, towel draped around his shoulders, chest rising and falling as he watched the match from a new angle. The noise still pressed in, but it felt different now as it was distant, dulled, as if filtered through certainty.
On the pitch, Arsenal shifted shape seamlessly.
Giroud provided a focal point, holding the ball up, drawing fouls. Gnabry stretched play, fearless, running directly at tired defenders. Cazorla dictated tempo, taking touches, drawing whistles, slowing everything down with infuriating ease.
Atlético tried.
They truly did.
Gameiro made sharp runs. Partey drove forward once or twice. Griezmann continued to search for space, refusing to stop fighting.
Arsenal intercepted passes calmly. Cleared lines efficiently. Passed sideways when needed, forward when allowed.
Time drained away.
From the bench, Francesco felt the match settle into a strange second life.
Not calmer as it's never calm at the Wanda, but clearer.
The patterns were obvious now. Atlético Madrid were chasing something already slipping beyond reach, throwing themselves forward on instinct and pride more than calculation. Arsenal, by contrast, were playing with a kind of measured patience that came only from experience and belief, choosing when to engage, when to retreat, when to suffocate the game rather than dominate it.
Francesco pulled the towel tighter around his shoulders and leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees again, eyes never leaving the pitch. Even off it, he felt responsible. He watched angles. He tracked runs. He muttered under his breath when positioning slipped, nodded when things clicked.
At the seventy-fourth minute, Atlético found another opening.
It came, again, from the left side.
Koke, who had been relentless all night, picked up the ball in a pocket just outside the box. Cazorla stepped toward him, compact, hands tucked in, body angled to shepherd him away from the danger zone. Partey surged past, drawing Kanté with him for half a second.
That half second was enough.
Koke slipped the ball inward, threading it delicately into space between Van Dijk and Koscielny. Griezmann was already there, gliding rather than sprinting, timing his movement with that uncanny sense of inevitability he possessed.
He didn't hesitate.
First touch to set.
Second touch to strike.
The shot was low, precise, skimming across the grass beyond Cech's reach and inside the far post.
For a moment, the stadium didn't just erupt as it convulsed.
Red and white leapt to their feet, arms thrown skyward, voices cracking with renewed belief. Griezmann spun away, fists clenched, screaming toward the crowd. Simeone exploded again, racing down the touchline, urging his players forward, demanding more, always more.
2–3 on the night.
7–3 on aggregate.
Francesco exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing just a touch.
He stood up, clapping loudly, deliberately, turning toward the pitch.
"Reset!" he shouted. "Reset!"
Koscielny glanced toward the bench briefly, caught Francesco's eye, and nodded once.
This was the danger zone.
Not because of the scoreline, but because of momentum.
Atlético smelled vulnerability now. Not qualification, perhaps, but blood. And pride could be just as powerful.
They came again.
Wave after wave.
Carrasco surged forward, now joined by Filipe Luís on overlapping runs. Griezmann drifted wider, dragging defenders with him. Gameiro's pace stretched the back line in ways Torres no longer could.
Arsenal responded by tightening.
Monreal tucked in closer. Bellerín stopped venturing forward entirely. Kanté dropped almost onto the defensive line at times, becoming a third center-back when needed. Cazorla slowed the game whenever the ball reached him, drawing fouls, shielding possession with that infuriating ease that made Atlético players hack at his ankles in frustration.
From the bench, Francesco watched Giroud carefully.
The big striker was doing exactly what Wenger wanted.
Holding the ball up.
Winning aerial duels.
Forcing fouls.
Letting seconds bleed away.
At the eighty-first minute, Arsenal struck again.
And this one felt cruel.
Atlético had committed everyone forward for a corner, even pushing Savic into the box. The delivery came in fast and flat, but Van Dijk rose above everyone, powering the header clear.
The ball dropped near the edge of the box.
Giroud was there.
He didn't panic. He cushioned it with his chest, shielding from Partey, then laid it off first time into space.
Alexis Sánchez was already moving.
He exploded into the open field, legs churning, eyes blazing, carrying the ball nearly half the length of the pitch. Atlético defenders scrambled back, exhausted now, their legs heavy from chasing shadows all night.
Griezmann tried to recover. Savic lunged.
Alexis cut inside.
Oblak rushed out, spreading himself, trying to narrow the angle.
Alexis didn't blast it.
He placed it.
A calm, precise finish rolled past Oblak's outstretched foot and into the net.
For a heartbeat, it was as if the entire stadium inhaled sharply.
Then the away end erupted.
2–4 on the night.
8–3 on aggregate.
Alexis tore away toward the corner, screaming, arms flung wide, veins standing out on his neck. Giroud followed, laughing now, punching the air, pointing toward the bench.
Francesco felt a smile finally break across his face that brief and satisfied.
That was the dagger.
On the pitch, Atlético players stood still for a moment, hands on hips, chests heaving, staring at the grass. Simeone paced furiously again, but even he looked like a man fighting the inevitable.
Three minutes later, at the eighty-fourth minute, Simeone made another change.
Koke, who had run himself into the ground, was withdrawn to a mixture of applause and frustration. Ángel Correa came on, fresh legs, quick feet, a final roll of the dice.
Atlético pushed again.
What else could they do?
They threw bodies forward with reckless abandon now, defenders stepping into midfield, midfielders into attack. Arsenal responded by retreating into a compact block, lines tight, communication constant.
From the bench, Francesco stood again, clapping rhythmically, urging calm.
"Shape! Shape!" he called.
At the eighty-eighth minute, Atlético found one last moment.
Correa, lively since coming on, danced down the right flank, skipping past Monreal with fresh energy. He cut inside sharply, drawing Kanté toward him, then slipped a clever reverse pass into the box.
Gameiro was there.
He struck first time, low and hard, catching Cech wrong-footed.
The ball slammed into the net.
3-4 on the night.
8–4 on aggregate.
The crowd are now roared not with belief, but with defiance. Pride. Refusal to go quietly.
Gameiro didn't celebrate wildly. He simply grabbed the ball from the net and ran it back toward the center circle, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.
Francesco nodded once.
Fair enough.
The remaining minutes were chaos.
Atlético poured forward, long balls flying, crosses whipped in, shots taken from impossible angles. Arsenal absorbed it all.
Van Dijk headed everything.
Koscielny threw himself into blocks.
Kanté tackled until his legs seemed to defy physics.
Cazorla kept drawing fouls, winning seconds, then more seconds.
The fourth official's board went up.
Three minutes of added time.
The Wanda Metropolitano roared one last time, desperate, demanding a miracle they all knew would not come.
Francesco stood at the edge of the technical area now, arms folded, eyes locked on the pitch, heart thudding not with fear but with anticipation.
The final whistle was coming.
Atlético launched one last hopeful ball into the box.
Cech rose above everyone, fists punching clear.
The ball fell to Gnabry, who turned and sprinted into space, forcing a foul near the halfway line.
The whistle shrilled.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Full time.
For a fraction of a second, there was silence.
Then reality hit.
Arsenal players dropped to their knees, arms raised, fists clenched. The away end exploded into unrestrained joy, songs pouring out, red scarves whipping the air.
On the pitch, some Atlético players stood frozen, staring at nothing. Others bent double, hands on knees, utterly spent.
Francesco stepped forward from the bench, walking onto the pitch slowly, deliberately.
He found Koscielny first, pulling him into a firm embrace.
"Well done," Francesco said quietly.
Koscielny nodded, eyes shining. "All of us."
Giroud grabbed Francesco next, laughing now, breathless. "Captain's job done, eh?"
Francesco smiled, genuine this time. "Everyone's job done."
Alexis jogged over, chest heaving, eyes still blazing with adrenaline. He clapped Francesco on the shoulder.
"Madrid," he said simply.
Francesco laughed softly. "Madrid."
They gathered near the center circle as a group, arms around shoulders, facing the away end. They applauded together, long and loud, acknowledging the supporters who had made themselves heard all night in hostile territory.
Scoreline on the board:
Atlético Madrid 3
Arsenal 4
Aggregate:
8–4.
A Champions League final awaited.
As Francesco looked around the Wanda Metropolitano that still loud, still proud, still defiant as he felt it settle fully inside him.
______________________________________________
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: 50
Goal: 80
Assist: 4
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9