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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.
Then they went back out.
The tunnel opened up like the mouth of a coliseum, spilling them back into the roaring chaos of Wembley. Only now—it was their chaos. The Arsenal fans, draped in red and white, filled the air with thunder. Chants of "Arsenal! Arsenal!" rolled down from the terraces like a tide, crashing against the pitch with every beat. Flags waved. Scarves swung. The red half of Wembley had come alive, and they were singing for the lead, singing for the cup, singing for Francesco.
And the Villa fans?
Silent. Nervous. Tension etched across their faces. The drums were quieter now. Their voices dimmed. At 1–0 down in a final, with Arsenal looking sharp and composed, it felt like the momentum had already chosen its side. They could feel it slipping. You could see it—the worried glances, the heads shaking. They knew their team had to respond, and quickly. But even they weren't sure if Villa had it in them.
Back on the pitch, the players took their positions. Francesco bounced on the balls of his feet, loosening his legs, eyes darting between defenders. Özil gave him a short nod. Giroud pounded his chest once, staring toward the halfway line. Sanchez was crouched low, coiled like a spring.
The whistle blew.
The second half began with a different rhythm. Villa were more aggressive right away—Delph charged forward, Richardson pushed higher up the left, and Agbonlahor who replace N'Zogbia began snapping at Bellerín's heels. But Arsenal didn't flinch. They kept the ball moving—one-touch passes, tight triangles, letting Villa chase shadows.
Cazorla and Coquelin orchestrated the midfield like seasoned duelists, sidestepping challenges and keeping the tempo under control. Özil, always gliding into space, was the silent conductor. And Francesco? He was electric—pulling wide, dragging defenders out, then darting inside with those sharp diagonal runs that had haunted Villa all first half.
Then came the moment.
50th minute.
It started innocently—just a simple turnover in midfield. Coquelin intercepted a heavy touch from Delph and immediately poked it to Özil. In one smooth motion, Özil turned, accelerated, and slipped it to Cazorla, who was already scanning the pitch.
Francesco made another smart decoy run—dragging Okore wide and opening a lane just inside. And Cazorla, as if playing from memory, passed into the open space—but not to Francesco this time.
It was Sanchez.
The Chilean didn't hesitate.
He picked up the ball just outside the box, took one touch forward, and then—bang.
It wasn't just a shot. It was a detonation.
His right foot thundered through the ball, sending it screaming toward goal. It rose and dipped so violently that Shay Given barely saw it. The ball dipped just under the bar, kissing the net so hard it nearly tore through it.
Wembley exploded again.
2–0. Arsenal.
The red end went nuclear. The chants now turned into a full-on chorus, a tidal wave of sound and passion and belief. People screamed, jumped, clutched strangers. Flags spun like helicopter blades. It felt like the stadium had been set alight with joy.
On the pitch, Sanchez sprinted toward the corner, his arms wide, mouth open in a primal yell. He slid on his knees and was quickly mobbed by teammates. Francesco was one of the first to reach him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shouting something no one else could hear but Sanchez. Whatever it was—it made the Chilean laugh mid-celebration, even through the adrenaline.
From the bench, Wilshere leapt up, fist-pumping the air. Wenger allowed himself another brief smile—more contained, but proud. It was working. All of it.
In the VIP box, Sarah covered her mouth again, tears now fully flowing. Mike didn't even try to hold back—he shouted, arms in the air, nearly lifting his seat off the hinges. Leah turned to Jorge, beaming. "What did I tell you?" she said, thumping her fist into his shoulder. "They're unstoppable."
Jorge chuckled. "It's looking like a statement."
Back on the pitch, Villa looked rattled. The energy they'd tried to bring out of the tunnel had drained from them. Vlaar shouted at his backline. Richardson barked something toward the bench. Tim Sherwood stood on the sideline, arms outstretched, demanding urgency—but there was only panic now.
Arsenal smelled blood.
They didn't retreat. They advanced.
Francesco, now floating with freedom, danced around challenges. Every touch was confident. He was enjoying himself now, letting the game flow through him. Özil found him again and again, and with Sanchez roaming from the left, Villa's backline was being pulled like taffy—stretched and bent out of shape.
In the 53th minute, Francesco nearly had a second. Özil picked him out with a lovely chipped ball over the top. Francesco brought it down expertly on his chest, spun on the bounce, and hit it low to the far post. Given got a fingertip to it—just enough to push it wide.
The Arsenal fans stood as one, groaning in unison, then clapping the effort. They were loving every second.
But Arsenal didn't give them a chance to settle. Every time Villa tried to build something, it was broken down—either by the tireless Coquelin, the aggressive pressing of Giroud, or the clever positional play of Bellerín and Monreal. Arsenal weren't just playing—they were dominating.
And all the while, Wenger stood calmly on the edge of his technical area. Arms crossed. Watching. Calculating.
This was what he'd dreamed of. His team, composed and expressive. Ruthless but elegant. And led, in so many ways, by a young man who hadn't even been part of the squad a year ago.
Francesco.
The 2–0 lead hadn't dulled his hunger. If anything, it had sharpened it.
He dropped deeper, combining with Özil, then popped up wide to link with Sanchez. Every touch carried weight, every movement drew defenders like magnets. He was in total control. Of the tempo, of the space—of the moment.
In the 57th minute, he earned a standing ovation from Wenger. Not because he scored—but because of a defensive sprint. Grealish tried to spark a counter down the left, breaking past Bellerín. Francesco had been in the middle of the park, but he tracked back at full speed, shoulder to shoulder with Grealish, and nicked the ball cleanly near the edge of his own box. Then, without skipping a beat, he turned and sent a laser pass upfield to Özil.
The crowd roared. That kind of commitment meant everything.
Then finally, in the 62nd minute, the moment that sealed it—the moment that made it feel real, inevitable—arrived.
Another corner for Arsenal. The red end of Wembley rose as one, scarves raised, voices joining in a rolling chant that echoed across the pitch. "We love you Arsenal, we do!" It was constant now, like a heartbeat. The pressure was unrelenting, the confidence flowing, and Villa were drowning in it.
Santi Cazorla jogged over to the corner flag, calm as ever, his eyes scanning the box. Francesco stood just outside the penalty area, ready for the rebound if it came. Mertesacker had made his way forward, towering above most around him, tugging his armband up, brushing the sweat from his brow. He didn't score many, but when he did—they mattered.
Cazorla raised his hand.
Then curled in a perfect delivery—whipped with pace, dipping right into the danger zone.
And there was Per.
The timing was flawless. He rose above Ron Vlaar, just enough separation, just enough muscle. He met the ball cleanly with his forehead, directing it low and hard toward the far corner.
Shay Given saw it late.
Too late.
The net rippled.
3–0.
And Wembley erupted again—no, it detonated. The Arsenal fans lost it. Strangers hugged. Fans in the front rows leapt over barriers in disbelief. Children were crying with joy, elders with relief. Flags blurred in the air. The red half of Wembley wasn't just celebrating anymore—they were dancing.
Mertesacker turned away, arms raised high, expression lit with an uncharacteristic grin. His teammates swarmed him. Giroud jumped onto his back. Coquelin roared in his face. Francesco arrived last, grabbing the captain by the shoulders and pulling him into the crowd. "Come on, skip!" he yelled, laughing.
The camera panned to Wenger. He smiled. Not a smirk. A true, full smile. The kind of expression that said yes. That said this is what I built. His captain had scored. His midfield had dominated. His young forward had delivered. Everything, everything, was coming together.
In the VIP box, Mike Lee had lifted Sarah off her feet. She didn't care—she just clung to him, face buried in his shoulder, crying into his coat. Leah was screaming, hands over her head, spinning in circles. Jorge Mendes was on his feet now, clapping with disbelief, shaking his head as if he were watching something unreal.
"This is unbelievable," Jorge muttered. "This is… history."
Leah was grinning so hard her face hurt. "That's our boy," she whispered, pointing at Francesco, who was now gesturing to the fans behind the goal, urging them to keep singing. "He's writing it."
On the pitch, Villa were done. Heads dropped. Shoulders slumped. The body language said it all—they knew.
Even Tim Sherwood, still yelling on the touchline, looked like a man barking into a storm. No one was listening anymore.
3–0 in an FA Cup Final. Arsenal weren't just winning—they were making a statement.
But the players didn't ease off.
Wenger gave no signal to shut it down. No defensive substitutions. No bunker mentality.
They played on.
Because this wasn't just about a trophy.
It was about sending a message.
And Francesco? He knew it. You could see it in his eyes. He wasn't satisfied. Not yet.
The game resumed, but it was no longer a contest. It was a show. Arsenal were stroking the ball around with swagger now—one-touch, no-look, backheels. Even Monreal was getting adventurous. Bellerín surged forward like he had springs in his boots. Coquelin, still tireless, broke up every half-hearted Villa push like it was nothing.
In the 67th minute, Özil flicked a pass with the outside of his boot that sent Sanchez clean through again, but this time his shot blazed just over the bar. The fans didn't care—they applauded the move more than they mourned the miss.
Every Arsenal touch was poetry. Confidence oozed from every pass. And at the center of it, always, was Francesco.
He floated between lines, drifting into spaces that only he seemed to see. Villa couldn't get close. Every time they thought they had him, he was gone—one touch, a flick, a burst of pace. He was tormenting them. Not just with talent, but with joy. He was having fun out there. And nothing is more dangerous than a footballer who's having fun.
Then, in the 70th minute—because this game wasn't done writing itself into legend—Arsenal struck again.
It started with a moment of calm in the storm, a series of passes from back to front that drew applause before the final move even happened. Mertesacker to Coquelin. Coquelin to Monreal. Monreal clipped it down the line to Cazorla, who had dropped deep to collect. Santi turned on the ball with that little swivel of his hips and found Özil gliding into the half-space like he was skating. And then it happened.
One flick. One no-look, slide-rule, outer-foot flick that cut through Villa like a laser.
Olivier Giroud saw it coming. He didn't have to adjust. He didn't break stride.
He just ran onto it.
And with one smooth touch, he swept it past Shay Given—low, curling, cruelly precise. The keeper barely moved.
4–0.
And now Wembley wasn't just loud. It was delirious. The red half was in full song, full motion—bouncing, stomping, arms over shoulders, a wave of ecstasy washing down the stands. "Oh Arsenal, we love you!" rang out, uncontainable.
Giroud sprinted toward the corner flag, his face split wide open in a grin, sliding on his knees as if it were a Champions League final. Özil caught up to him and pointed at the crowd, then at his own head like, yeah, I saw that pass before it existed.
Francesco was already charging in from behind, jumping on both of them. "You two are stupid good," he shouted, laughing.
Santi joined next. Monreal. Bellerín. Even Koscielny jogged over to be part of it. Because this wasn't just a goal—it was a flex. This was Arsenal, in total control, having the time of their lives.
And the camera panned again.
To Wenger.
He didn't smile this time.
He beamed.
His hands were in his pockets, but you could see it in his posture—that quiet satisfaction of a man who believed in this team, believed in this style, and was now watching the result of all that belief unfold in real time. They weren't just winning. They were crushing it. Beautifully.
In the 73rd minute, Wenger made a triple substitution.
The fourth goal had sealed it, and now came the curtain call. Off went Alexis Sánchez, Mesut Özil, and Olivier Giroud. All three to standing ovations that could have torn the roof off Wembley. Fans clapped until their hands stung. Cheered until their voices cracked.
On came Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, Jack Wilshere, and Theo Walcott.
It was a statement not just of depth, but of intent. These weren't backups. These were quality players. And now, Francesco was shifted centrally—to the striker role.
He nodded at Wenger, tapped his chest as if to say, I got this, and trotted into position.
Theo went wide right, Ox on the left, and Jack slotted in where Özil had operated, that free-roaming link between midfield and attack.
It was a front line born of Arsenal DNA—speed, flair, intelligence.
Meanwhile, Tim Sherwood, visibly frustrated on the touchline, was scrambling to make changes of his own. He pulled off Westwood and Kieran Richardson, replacing them with Leandro Bacuna and Carlos Sánchez. Tactical changes, sure. But at 4–0 down, it felt more like damage control than a response.
And it didn't change much.
Villa were drained. Every goal had chipped away at their spirit, and now their heads were down, legs heavy. They looked like a team that had accepted their fate. Even their fans, once hopeful, now sat in quiet clumps, watching through fingers or staring blankly as the minutes ticked by.
But Arsenal weren't easing off.
They could've parked the bus. Played it safe. Let the clock run out.
But they didn't.
Because Francesco had just moved up front—and that meant there was still a story to write.
He dropped into little pockets, dragging defenders with him. He spun off shoulders. He barked instructions, pointed where he wanted it. He was everywhere—hungry, alive, ready to stamp his name on the moment.
And now, with fresh legs around him—Wilshere fizzing passes, Walcott darting down the wing, Ox cutting inside—Francesco was in his element.
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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