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But something was about to give. He could feel it. The way the grass bent under his boots. The way the sun was now finally above the stadium, glinting off Giroud's hair like a spotlight. The way Özil had started smiling—just faintly, but enough.
The 33rd minute arrived not with fanfare, but with that quiet kind of tension—like everyone in the Emirates had stopped breathing just long enough for the moment to find its way through.
Francesco stood near the touchline, bent at the waist slightly, hands on his thighs. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His pulse was drumming in his ears. Another run. Another chance. But they needed something more. Something to break the rhythm.
Then it happened.
It started, as so many beautiful things at Arsenal did, with Özil.
Deep in midfield, Özil received the ball from Ramsey under pressure. A quick look over his shoulder—a glance that took less than half a second but revealed an entire picture. City had pushed too far forward. Their backline was exposed. Kolarov was caught ball-watching. Mangala had stepped too high.
And Theo was already gone.
Özil turned like he'd rehearsed it in his sleep and released the ball—a gorgeous, curling diagonal pass that sliced through the space between City's midfield and defense like it had been stitched there.
Francesco's head snapped up.
He saw it all unfold in front of him.
Theo took it in stride, that first touch immaculate, killing the pace just enough to keep it ahead of Kolarov but within his range. The acceleration that followed was vintage Walcott—blistering, like his boots had caught fire. Kolarov couldn't match it. Mangala lunged across to cover, panic in every stride.
But it was too late.
Theo ghosted between the two defenders, chopped the ball inside with his right foot, and leaned into the shot. It wasn't thunderous. It wasn't flashy.
It was perfect.
A low strike, just inside the far post, skimming the grass with such precision that Joe Hart could only drop too late. The net rippled.
1–0.
The Emirates detonated.
It was noise and fists in the air and scarves flung wide. The crowd erupted with that raw, full-throated roar that only comes when frustration finally turns into joy.
Francesco sprinted from the wing, arms spread, teeth bared in a grin. He reached Theo just as he turned toward the corner flag, and they crashed into each other in a half-hug, half-collision.
Özil joined them moments later, calm as ever but smiling deeply, as if he'd known that pass would find its way through the second it left his boot.
Koscielny came thundering in from the back, clapping Theo hard on the back. "That's what I'm talking about!" he barked, voice hoarse.
Ramsey shouted something unintelligible, arms waving to the crowd.
The scoreboard updated in sharp, white digits:
ARSENAL 1 – 0 MANCHESTER CITY
The reset was quick, but the emotion lingered. The entire team jogged back into formation with a new pulse in their veins. Francesco could feel it in every fiber of his body—that crackle of electricity that came with leading.
He glanced toward Wenger on the touchline. The boss didn't jump. He never did. But his fists clenched slightly, and a soft nod passed between him and Bould.
That meant everything.
Back in shape, Francesco tightened his armband slightly, exhaled, and called to Monreal behind him, "Hold the line."
City responded almost immediately.
The next few minutes were chaos, but it was controlled chaos—Arsenal's kind. City threw bodies forward, trying to recover from the sucker punch, but now Arsenal had rhythm. They weren't chasing anymore. They were dancing.
De Bruyne tried to take over the match, as he does. He dropped deep, took on Kante and Ramsey both, and sprayed passes with both feet. One ball nearly found Aguero again, but Van Dijk stood firm, a titan with boots. He muscled Aguero off the ball like he was brushing away a fly.
Then, in the 37th, Arsenal nearly had another.
Özil again—this time pirouetting past Fernando and slipping it to Francesco, who had tucked inside. Francesco took a quick touch and rifled a shot toward the near post. Hart, scrambling, got just enough on it to push it wide. The crowd gasped. The tension tightened.
The corner was taken short, worked around the edge.
Francesco called for it again, Özil feinted, and passed instead to Ramsey. This time, the shot flew over. Inches. Maybe less.
But Arsenal weren't just ahead now—they were in control.
The tempo had shifted. Even though City were dangerous—they always were—the body language told the story. Mangala was nervy. Kolarov kept checking over his shoulder. Delph had started retreating deeper.
The 40th minute came and went with Francesco curling another cross just out of Giroud's reach. Walcott, with confidence pulsing through him now, sprinted back defensively to block a Kolarov overlap.
Every man was tuned in.
Then the 43rd nearly delivered a dagger.
Bellerín surged forward after dispossessing Delph and laid it off to Özil, who floated another beautiful ball toward Francesco, arriving late into the box. He rose with Mangala and got his head on it—just glancing.
Wide.
But close enough to make the whole stadium groan in unison.
Halftime approached, but Arsenal weren't interested in winding the clock down. They pushed for another. Özil, Francesco, Theo—fluid, dangerous. Ramsey the engine. Kante the wall.
In the dying seconds of the half, City finally created something dangerous. Silva got on the ball thirty yards out and played a sharp one-two with De Bruyne, darting into the box. He looked up, and for a moment—just a flicker—it looked like he had a lane to shoot.
But Koscielny stepped in with immaculate timing. Clean. Ice cold.
Silva went down, appealing.
The referee shook his head.
Play on.
The board had just ticked past the 45th minute when it happened again. The Emirates was still settling after a City half-chance, still vibrating from the tension of the last few exchanges. But the fans didn't know they were about to rise to their feet once more—this time in sheer disbelief.
Arsenal earned a throw-in deep down the right flank. Bellerín jogged to collect the ball, wiped his hands quickly on his jersey, then lobbed it short to Ramsey, who immediately played it back to Kante. One touch. Then to Özil.
Özil again.
He drifted inside—untouched, unbothered, untouchable—and spotted the run. Giroud was already peeling off Mangala's shoulder, and Otamendi was caught flat-footed, arms spread, unsure whether to track the striker or cut the pass.
He chose neither.
Özil lifted the ball with that trademark whip, a pass disguised as a dream, curling high into the freezing North London air. It spun, dipped, floated just long enough for Giroud to calculate his move. The Frenchman arched his run, powered past Mangala with a shoulder drop, and rose.
Otamendi tried to match him.
Too late.
Giroud met the ball with the full weight of his frame, neck snapping, forehead angled.
The header flew.
It didn't loop. It screamed—high and rising into the top right corner before Joe Hart could even set his stance. The net bulged, and the roar was immediate, feral, explosive.
2–0.
Francesco's jaw dropped in the moment—just for a beat—before he sprinted toward the corner to join the celebration. He barely even reached Giroud before the striker was swarmed. Ramsey leapt on his back. Özil raised a fist in calm triumph. Even Koscielny jogged across the pitch, grinning like a schoolboy. The Emirates was a cathedral of joy.
Two assists for Özil. Two goals. Two punches thrown by a side playing poetry in motion.
As Giroud strutted back to the halfway line, the scoreboard updated behind him:
45+2' — Arsenal 2, Manchester City 0
Francesco caught Wenger's expression as they lined back up—hands still in pockets, but his mouth twitched in what looked like restrained pride. Bould clapped once behind him, jaw clenched.
Seconds later, the whistle blew.
Halftime.
The tunnel swallowed them whole as they made their way off the pitch, boots crunching over the tape-covered floor. Inside, it was warmer, steam clinging to skin, the sound of breathing and boots echoing off tile.
The dressing room was a mixture of elation and discipline. Francesco dropped into his seat, pulled the wet shirt from his back, and towelled off his face, adrenaline still pumping through his limbs.
Giroud dropped next to him, chugging water. "That one," he panted, pointing upward, "was for the cameras."
Francesco laughed, still short of breath. "You nearly tore the net."
Wenger entered moments later, arms folded. He waited. Always did. Let them settle.
Then he spoke.
"Excellent," he said simply. "We were excellent. Controlled, ruthless, sharp. But this is not done."
Silence, except for the hum of the overhead light.
"They will come out aggressive. They have no choice. They are two down. That will make them dangerous."
He walked slowly to the whiteboard. "Delph will likely come off. Sterling will enter. They'll overload the left. Speed and space. That will be their plan."
He turned to Bellerín. "Hector, they'll come at you. You know this."
Bellerín nodded. "Let them."
Wenger's eyes swept the room. "Be disciplined. First fifteen minutes—we hold. After that, we play. Understood?"
"Yes, boss," a few voices murmured.
Francesco didn't speak. He just clenched his fists softly, rolling his neck, breath steadying.
Walcott slapped his thigh, grinning. "Let's ruin their Christmas."
The team chuckled—just enough tension broken.
Kitmen handed out dry jerseys. Tape was reapplied. Water bottles were passed like sacred objects. Francesco stood, drew the fresh shirt over his head, adjusted the armband again.
He looked into the mirror above his locker.
Eyes sharp. Heart calm.
Captain.
Then came the call from the corridor.
"Two minutes."
They lined up again in the tunnel. The air felt colder now, more urgent. Francesco stood next to Theo, ahead of Koscielny. City's lineup had changed. As predicted, Delph was gone. Raheem Sterling stood across from them—jaw clenched, bouncing lightly on his toes like a coiled spring.
And the look in his eyes? Dangerous.
The second half began.
And just as Wenger warned, City attacked like wild animals unleashed from a cage.
It was a different beast now—fast, direct, venomous. Aguero dropped deep, dragging Van Dijk. Sterling hugged the left touchline, trying to pin Bellerín back. Every ball seemed to be wired toward space behind Arsenal's back four.
In the 48th minute, Sterling took his first real chance. Silva slipped it to him with a disguised touch, and he exploded down the wing. Bellerín chased—step for step—but the City winger got his cross off.
Aguero lunged.
Cech punched.
The ball flew out to the edge of the box, where De Bruyne volleyed it low and hard.
Deflected.
Corner.
The Emirates held its breath.
The corner was swung in. Otamendi rose—above everyone—but Cech had already tracked the flight. He punched again, this time farther, and Kante pounced on the loose ball like a shark in bloodied water, clearing it long.
But City came again. And again.
Sterling cut in and tried to bend one past Cech in the 51st.
Wide.
A minute later, Silva threaded another pass in behind Bellerín. Sterling latched on, drove inside, danced past Koscielny, and let rip.
Saved.
Cech again.
Fingertips.
The crowd roared not in celebration—but in defiance.
Francesco jogged back, panting, locking eyes with Bellerín. "Still with him?"
Bellerín grinned, teeth clenched. "All day."
The siege continued until the hour mark. Fifteen straight minutes of City fury. Possession dominated. Tackles flying in. The kind of pressure that makes lesser teams fold.
But Arsenal didn't break.
They bent—God, they bent—but they didn't break.
Giroud came deep to help. Özil tracked back. Ramsey crunched into Silva just inside the circle and the crowd erupted like it was a goal. Every block, every clearance, every line held—it meant something.
Francesco helped double-mark Sterling, shadowing when Bellerín pushed. He was tired—more than tired—but he didn't stop.
By the 61st minute, the tempo finally began to dip. Not for Arsenal. For City.
They were running out of clean ideas. The adrenaline surge was starting to wear. Sterling's last sprint ended with a heavy touch and a frustrated arm wave.
De Bruyne overhit a pass. Silva misread a run.
The sting was fading.
And that's when Francesco knew: they'd held.
Now it was their turn again.
And somewhere behind him, he heard Wenger's voice—calm, clear.
"Now. Take the game."
The ball came to Francesco at the left touchline, just over halfway. He touched it forward, raised his head, and saw space again.
The ball arrived at Francesco's feet just past the halfway line, hugging the white chalk of the left touchline. The Emirates crowd stirred—there was that rising sound again, that low buzz turning electric. They knew what could come.
He didn't force it. He let the ball roll, then touched it forward, pushing it into space past a tired Sagna who had drifted too far inside. There was no time to think—just instincts now, the kind of instincts you forge through a thousand training drills, a hundred cold mornings at Colney, and dozens of matches under pressure.
Francesco burst forward. Otamendi came to meet him, late and heavy-legged. One step, two—then a cut inside that sent the Serbian fullback stumbling just enough. The space opened. Özil was there again.
How was he always there?
Mesut peeled away from Fernandinho and found a pocket near the edge of the final third. Francesco didn't need to shout. He didn't need to look.
Özil already knew.
A feathered, delicate touch from Francesco rolled the ball into Özil's path.
And then—magic.
Özil didn't even break stride. His pass—a disguised ball played behind the City backline—was a reverse curl that arced perfectly between Kolarov and Mangala. It was the kind of pass that seemed to pause time. The crowd collectively held its breath.
Francesco was already moving.
He ran into the seam, the weight of Özil's pass landing like silk at his feet. Joe Hart rushed off his line.
Too late.
Francesco opened his body, lifted his head, and swept his shot with the inside of his right foot toward the top far corner.
It was elegance and venom in one motion.
The ball kissed the net.
3–0.
The Emirates didn't erupt this time—it exploded.
A wave of noise crashed over the stadium, a thunderclap of joy and disbelief. Francesco slid to his knees by the corner flag, arms flung wide, mouth open in a scream that was lost in the sea of celebration.
Özil ran to him, smiling, fingers raised—three assists, each one a scalpel. Theo was the third to join, followed by Giroud, and then a rush of red shirts.
In the dugout, Wenger turned to Steve Bould and smiled—broadly now, with none of the usual restraint. "That," he said, "was beautiful."
Francesco rose to his feet, dusted his knees, and looked to the crowd. He pointed upward, then kissed the badge.
It meant everything.
As he jogged back toward the center circle, the fourth official raised the substitution board. Wenger wasn't wasting time.
Theo Walcott—replaced by Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.
Francesco—his work done—replaced by young Alex Iwobi.
Ramsey—tireless, brilliant—replaced by the ever-dependable Mathieu Flamini.
The applause that greeted Francesco as he jogged off was thunderous. He clapped back at the crowd, breathing hard, armband tugged off and passed to Koscielny on the way out. Iwobi gave him a quick hug before taking the pitch.
On City's side, Pellegrini made his own changes.
Aguero—frustrated and mostly isolated all night—was replaced by Wilfried Bony.
David Silva—subdued and marked out of the match—made way for Jesus Navas, adding more pace down the flank.
But it felt like rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship.
The tempo slowed just slightly after the third goal, Arsenal content to manage the match. Flamini slotted in next to Kante, shielding the back line. Iwobi provided fresh legs to help Bellerín double up on Sterling, who still tried to conjure danger on the left wing but was now met by speed and enthusiasm in equal measure.
The minutes ticked by. City kept possession. They passed. Moved. Tried.
But the air had gone out of them.
Still, pride doesn't die quietly.
In the 84th minute, City found a flicker of life.
It came from an unlikely sequence—Zabaleta overlapping Navas, who cut inside to draw Monreal. The Argentine fed it to Sagna, who had pushed high down the right. The ex-Arsenal man didn't hesitate—he cut it back into the box with power.
Yaya Touré was there.
Unmarked.
One step. One touch. One shot.
It was vintage Touré—pure force and technique. The ball rifled past Cech into the roof of the net. A powerful, unstoppable strike.
3–1.
A ripple of frustration, then polite applause from some sections of the City supporters. Mostly, though, it was viewed for what it was: a consolation. A strike of class that changed little.
Arsenal didn't panic. Didn't retreat.
They played out the final minutes with poise. Flamini and Kante put out fires. Giroud held the ball high. Chamberlain buzzed around the right side, keeping defenders occupied.
In the 89th, Bellerín made a surge of his own, linking with Iwobi for a cheeky one-two that had the Emirates on its feet again, even if the final cross was blocked.
By stoppage time, City were walking. Not literally—but the spark had gone.
When the final whistle blew, it came like a bell ringing at the end of a glorious symphony.
Arsenal 3 – Manchester City 1.
The players embraced. Özil, arms raised. Giroud clapped toward the crowd. Flamini gave Cech a high-five. Koscielny hugged Van Dijk.
Francesco watched it all from the sideline, still in his training bib, but glowing. He knew this one would be remembered. They weren't just top of the league now, but they had planted a sign that they are the number one contender to win the Premier League this season.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 26
Goal: 35
Assist: 5
MOTM: 2
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9