If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
The teams lined up for the anthem. The camera panned across their faces. Francesco kept his gaze locked ahead, eyes burning with intensity. The camera paused on him for a moment—and he didn't flinch. He knew millions were watching.
Then the scene shifted—cutting away from the electric atmosphere pitch-side to the gleaming VIP box high above Wembley's sea of colour. The noise of the crowd was still a steady roar, muffled slightly by the thick glass, but the view was commanding—an ocean of red and white clashing proudly with claret and blue, a perfect divide below the iconic arch.
Leah Williamson stood just behind the front row of seats, arms folded, but her face was soft with pride. She wore a red Arsenal shirt—that with Francesco name and shirt number 35 at the shirt back. But her heart was very much in the game. Next to her sat Sarah and Mike Lee, Francesco's parents, both dressed with simple elegance but unable to hide the whirlwind of emotion on their faces. Sarah kept glancing toward the tunnel, while Mike held a program rolled up tightly in his hand, his knuckles white.
Beside them, in a sharp grey suit with sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket, Jorge Mendes leaned slightly forward. He was calm—always calm—but there was the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth as the players emerged into full view. The anthem was moments away.
"There he is," Sarah whispered, eyes locked on her son as he took his place in the lineup.
"Looks calm," Mike said, voice low, more to himself than anyone else.
"He always does," Leah replied. "But he's ready. You can see it in his body language."
Jorge chuckled softly. "He was born for games like this."
All eyes turned to the pitch now. The camera had begun its slow pan down the line of players as "God Save the Queen" played through the colossal stadium speakers. The Arsenal and Villa players stood tall, arms behind their backs, facing the Royal Box. Some sang quietly, others simply breathed deeply and held their posture.
Francesco stood firm in his spot near the end of the Arsenal line. His chin lifted slightly. His eyes didn't waver. This was his theatre now. The anthem wasn't just a formality—it was the final breath before a plunge.
The anthem faded, and the applause swelled immediately. The kind that started as a soft wave before crashing into a full, thunderous cheer. The players began to move again—handshakes, nods, a few quiet words exchanged.
Francesco stepped forward, reaching out to shake hands with the officials first—the head referee, then the linesmen. Quick, respectful. No need for words. Then came the Aston Villa players. A few familiar faces, a few polite nods. He exchanged a firm handshake with Fabian Delph, who gave him a short, focused look. No smiles—just respect. Benteke gave him a subtle nod as their palms met. Grealish didn't say anything, adjusting his hairband as he moved down the line. Francesco wasn't fazed.
The captains stepped forward—Per Mertesacker and Fabian Delph—each with a firm grip on their armbands and responsibility. They approached the referee, who held out the coin between two fingers.
"Tails is Villa, heads is Arsenal," the referee said, glancing at both captains. "Call it in the air."
Delph called "Tails!" with a snap in his voice as the coin spun into the air, caught with a practiced motion.
"Heads," the referee announced, holding out the coin for proof.
Francesco felt the smallest surge in his chest. Not a celebration, but a tightening of focus. Arsenal would kick off. It wasn't a huge thing, but it set the rhythm. It meant they'd take control first.
Mertesacker exchanged another word with the official before jogging back toward the Arsenal half, barking instructions with that calm assurance only he could deliver.
Francesco made the short jog back to his wing, hands flexing slightly at his sides. He looked around—not just at his teammates, but at the entire pitch, absorbing it like muscle memory. The crowd was near deafening now, but he was inside the moment.
On the far side, the Arsenal bench stood along the touchline. Jack Wilshere had taken off his jacket. Theo and Ramsey were stretching. Wenger stood still, arms behind his back, his face unreadable as ever. He trusted them. He trusted Francesco.
The ball was placed on the centre spot. Giroud stood over it, Ozil nearby for the tap. As the referee checked his watch, Francesco glanced to his right—across the pitch to where N'Zogbia was getting into position. The Villa winger bounced on his toes once, twice. Then again.
Then the referee looked at his watch and blew the whistle to start the game.
Wembley erupted again—not just in noise, but in motion. The FA Cup Final was underway.
Giroud tapped it to Özil, who immediately spun and laid it back to Cazorla. The game didn't explode into chaos straight away—Arsenal looked to settle on the ball early, threading simple passes across the backline to gauge Aston Villa's shape. But Villa were hungry. Grealish and Delph pressed aggressively. Benteke drifted menacingly between Mertesacker and Koscielny, like a storm cloud waiting to break.
Francesco, out wide on the right, already had his engine running. He dropped deep to give Bellerín an option and then quickly darted in behind when the ball went elsewhere. Villa's left-back, Kieran Richardson, was sharp to it—but not sharp enough to stop the warning signs.
In the VIP box, Leah's eyes never left him.
"He's trying to find space," she muttered, arms still folded. "It's coming."
The first real opening came in the 6th minute—Özil slipped a gorgeous reverse ball to Giroud, who played it first-time out wide to Francesco. The Emirates prodigy didn't hesitate—he took it in stride, flicked it past Richardson, and lashed a low cross toward the near post. Alexis Sanchez came tearing in—but Given dived full-stretch to smother it before it could turn dangerous.
That was the tone. End-to-end, fierce. Villa didn't sit back—they matched Arsenal stride for stride, punch for punch.
By the 15th minute, both goalkeepers had already made three saves each.
At one end, Szczęsny tipped a curling Grealish shot over the bar, then moments later sprang left to deny a bullet header from Benteke. The crowd gasped. At the other end, Given had clawed out an Özil effort bound for the top corner, then spread himself like a starfish to deny Sanchez from close range.
Then came Francesco's moment.
In the 19th minute, Bellerín darted down the right and fed him in stride. With two defenders closing, Francesco chopped the ball inside with his left, creating half a yard, and unleashed a vicious effort on his right—aimed for the far corner. It screamed toward goal, but Given was there again, fingertips just enough to tip it past the post.
"Bloody hell," Mike Lee breathed from the box, that rolled-up program nearly bent in half now.
Leah leaned forward slightly. "That's three shots already."
"He's going to score," Sarah whispered, almost to herself.
But Villa weren't backing down.
Grealish began to drift inside, combining with Delph and cleverly drawing fouls to break Arsenal's rhythm. Delph had a low drive blocked by Coquelin in the 23rd. Benteke almost stole in again off a deep cross in the 25th. Szczęsny's gloves were stinging by the minute.
At the 30-minute mark, the game paused for a moment—Sanchez went down after a clash of heads with Tom Cleverley, both players needing treatment.
It was a chance to breathe. Barely.
The stats flashed on the screen. 6 shots on target apiece. 6 saves apiece. Possession split nearly down the middle. Wembley was witnessing a proper cup final—not a chess match, but a brawl with elegance.
The crowd buzzed through the pause, fans on both sides chanting, drumming, waving flags.
Up in the box, Jorge Mendes finally spoke again.
"This is wild," he said with a smile. "But he's loving it. Look at him."
Francesco stood near the touchline, hands on hips, nodding along to something Arsene Wenger was yelling from the bench. Sweat glistened at his temples, but his expression was clear. Focused. Hungry.
The game restarted, and it only escalated.
In the 34th minute, Arsenal carved out a slick move—Cazorla to Özil, Özil to Sanchez, who flipped a pass into Francesco's path again. This time he darted inside and tried to curl one left-footed. Inches wide.
At the other end, Delph danced past Coquelin and fired a low cross that somehow evaded everyone, skimming past the far post with Benteke an inch away from tapping in.
Then, in the 39th minute, the first goal nearly arrived—and it should have.
Özil whipped in a devilish free-kick from the left. It cleared the pack at the near post and dropped perfectly for Mertesacker. He rose, met it full-on—but the header crashed off the crossbar. The rebound fell to Giroud, but Given again stood tall, blocking the follow-up with his chest.
The Villa fans roared their approval. The Arsenal fans groaned.
"Just needs one to drop," Leah said, eyes never blinking.
Then finally, in the 41st minute, it happened.
It wasn't flashy. It wasn't some wild, acrobatic volley or thunderbolt from 30 yards out. No—it was crafted. It was patience, precision, and timing. The culmination of relentless pressure and persistence. And it had Francesco Lee written all over it.
Arsenal had built slowly from the back again, pulling Villa's midfield just slightly out of shape. Cazorla dropped deeper this time, feinting left, drawing in Cleverley before spinning away into space. Özil moved with him, drifting toward the left channel, pulling a marker. Just a ripple of movement—but it was enough.
Cazorla looked up once. He saw it. The gap. The run.
Francesco had started to drift wide, almost lazily, tugging Kieran Richardson a yard out. Then—bang. He was gone. He darted inside, sprinting into the half-space just behind Villa's left-back and inside the channel between the centre-halves. It wasn't a hopeful run. It was surgical. Demanding.
Cazorla didn't hesitate. He split the needle with a stunning diagonal ground pass—one of those rare deliveries that seemed to whisper through defenders rather than beat them with pace. Francesco met it perfectly, striding into the box with only a slight touch needed to bring it under control.
Time slowed.
Shay Given rushed off his line. Clark slid in from behind. The crowd inhaled.
But Francesco?
He was ice.
He opened up his body, as if shaping to curl it across Given—and then with the deftest flick of his right boot, he slotted it inside the near post. Clean. Calm. Ruthless.
The net rippled.
And Wembley exploded.
1–0 to Arsenal.
The red end of the stadium detonated in noise—flags whipping in the air, fans leaping to their feet, voices cracking in raw euphoria. The Arsenal bench erupted—Wilshere jumped, arms in the air, and Wenger, ever the restrained figure, gave a rare, emphatic fist pump.
On the pitch, Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, mouth wide open in a roar of triumph. He slid to his knees, fists clenched, as his teammates chased him down. Giroud was the first to leap onto him, followed by Özil and Sanchez. Cazorla caught up last, grinning from ear to ear, and slapped the back of Francesco's head before pulling him into a tight hug.
"That's what I'm talking about!" the Spaniard shouted over the roar. "You owe me one!"
Francesco laughed, breathless. "I'll get you a drink after this!"
From the VIP box, Sarah Lee let out a cry—part laugh, part gasp—and covered her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Mike stood frozen for half a second, then let out a bark of joy and slammed the rolled-up program into the air.
Leah?
Leah jumped to her feet. "YES!" she shouted, pumping both fists. "Come on, Francesco!"
Even Jorge Mendes, cool and composed as ever, allowed himself a full smile. He leaned back in his chair and nodded. "First of many."
On the stadium screen, the replay ran over and over again—Cazorla's pass dissecting Villa's defence, Francesco's movement and finish, the poise in the moment. It wasn't just a goal. It was a message.
This final was his.
The game restarted with Villa looking rattled. They tried to bite back immediately—Delph storming forward and releasing a shot that sailed high into the Arsenal crowd—but it didn't land. It didn't shake Arsenal's composure.
Francesco was buzzing now. He was everywhere. Dropping deep to pick up the ball. Cutting inside from the right. Tracking back to win possession. It wasn't just about flair—it was about control, tempo, responsibility. He looked like a player not just enjoying the final—but owning it.
The whistle blew for half-time just a few minutes later.
1–0. Arsenal had their noses in front.
As the players jogged off the pitch, Francesco was one of the last to leave. He took a long glance back toward the stand—toward the sea of red. Then, almost instinctively, he looked up.
There they were. His people.
Leah caught his eye. She smiled and mouthed something he couldn't hear—but didn't need to.
Mike raised the rolled-up program like a trophy. Sarah waved through tears.
Francesco gave a nod. Subtle. But it said everything.
Inside the dressing room, the energy was crackling. Not wild or chaotic—focused. Controlled.
Wenger gathered the players into a tight huddle after the medical team checked on Sanchez and Coquelin. He was calm, but intense, eyes moving from player to player.
Then Wenger gave them the briefing on how they should approach the second half.
He didn't raise his voice—he never needed to. But the weight behind his words was unmistakable. The room quieted as he stepped into the center of the circle, hands clasped behind his back, eyes burning with clarity.
"We are halfway," he said, voice low but firm. "Halfway to lifting that trophy. But only halfway."
He paused, letting it settle. The players leaned in.
"They will come harder now. More direct. More physical. They will try to turn this into chaos." He looked toward Coquelin, who was still rotating his shoulder after that first-half knock. "We stay calm. We play our game."
He shifted his gaze across the room—Cazorla, Özil, Sanchez, then finally to Francesco.
"You see what patience gives you?" he said, a slight smile forming. "You carved them open. No panic. You waited. And when the moment came—" he gestured with a hand, as if cutting through silk, "—you punished them."
Francesco nodded, still catching his breath. Sweat matted his hair to his forehead, but his eyes were sharp, alive. He hadn't just scored—he'd set the tone.
Wenger continued. "They will press you higher now. That means space in behind. Francesco—" he turned to him, "—you keep moving. Inside, outside, make them chase. Pull their shape apart. Özil, link with him. Cazorla, deeper again. Let them come to you. Then… you know what to do."
There were nods all around. It was like he was conducting an orchestra—each instruction not a command, but a note in a symphony they all knew by heart.
"To the fullbacks—don't over-commit. They'll look for the counter. Stay tight. Bellerín, Monreal—hold your line. And Giroud," Wenger turned to the striker, who had been bruising Clark and Vlaar all half, "keep making it a battle. Win the first ball, we'll take the second."
Then he let out a slow breath and softened his voice. "You've earned this moment. But don't just hold onto it—own it. Play without fear. Finish the job."
He stepped back. "Now go."
No dramatic clap, no rallying scream. Just belief. That was all he ever gave them—and it was all they ever needed.
As the players rose from their seats, tightening laces, tugging shirts, and sharing brief words of encouragement, Francesco stood for a moment longer. He looked down at the Arsenal badge on his chest, then up at the crest on the wall above the door.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League
Match Played: 34
Goal: 42
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8