If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Francesco collapsed to the turf, arms spread, chest heaving, eyes closed. Around him, red shirts poured in, teammates embracing, staff running onto the pitch. The Arsenal end was pure madness—songs, flags, tears, everything poured out in one uncontainable flood.
Francesco sat up eventually, sweat dripping off his temples, soaking through his shirt, clinging to him like a second skin. His lungs still burned from the sprint, from the goal, from the desperate closing minutes. He brushed his hair back with both hands, his chest heaving. And then—he looked up.
What he saw nearly undid him.
The fans. Thousands upon thousands of them. A sea of red and white flooding the great bowl of Wembley, scarves raised high into the night, mouths open in song, in joy, in pure unfiltered devotion. They weren't just celebrating. They were calling to him.
"FRAN-CES-CO!
FRAN-CES-CO!
FRAN-CES-CO!"
The sound rolled across Wembley like thunder breaking in waves, each syllable shaking his bones. It wasn't just noise—it was recognition, adoration, gratitude, love. His name, his very identity, carried by fifty thousand throats until it felt like the whole world was chanting for him.
For a moment, Francesco froze. He didn't fist-pump, didn't scream, didn't leap up. He just let it wash over him. The roar poured into his ears, into his heart, filling every tired inch of him until the exhaustion dissolved, replaced by something impossible to describe. He'd dreamed of nights like this as a boy—scoring the goal, hearing the crowd scream his name—but the reality was more raw, more overwhelming.
He lowered his head, blinking hard, his eyes wet with sweat and something else.
And that's when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Mesut Özil crouched down beside him, calm as always, his hair damp, his jersey clinging. There was no wild celebration from him now, just that familiar understated aura, the quiet brilliance of a man who didn't need to shout to be heard.
Özil leaned in, ruffled Francesco's hair gently, almost like an older brother would, and gave him that soft, knowing smile.
"You see?" Özil murmured, voice nearly lost under the roar. "You just had to wait for the right ball."
Francesco laughed, breathless, shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned into Özil's side, pressing his forehead briefly against the German's shoulder.
"And you just had to give it," he shot back, his voice hoarse but warm.
Özil's smile widened, that glint of pride in his eyes, before he pulled Francesco up to his feet.
They barely had a second before Alexis Sánchez barreled into them, all energy and fire, wrapping his arms around both in a crushing hug. His voice, ragged from ninety minutes of shouting, burst out in rapid Spanish—words tumbling too fast for Francesco to fully catch, but he didn't need a translation. The meaning was crystal clear: We did it. We fought. We won.
The three of them clung together in that storm of sound, sweat, and relief. Not just teammates in that moment, but brothers.
When Sánchez finally released them, thumping both on the back, Francesco wiped his face with the back of his hand. The chants were still rolling, still pounding his name into the night sky. But even through the high of it all, even through the intoxicating rush of victory, he remembered what football had taught him.
Victory meant nothing if you couldn't respect the fallen.
So he turned.
The Palace players were scattered across the grass. Some lay flat on their backs, arms outstretched, as if the weight of Wembley had crushed them. Others crouched with heads buried in hands. Their fans had been magnificent all game, defiant in their corner of the stadium, but now their voices were drowned out, swallowed whole by the Arsenal end.
Francesco knew that pain. He had been on the wrong end of matches like this, had felt that void in his chest, that disbelief that all the fight, all the running, all the hope could still end in nothing. And he knew what it meant to have someone reach out in that moment, even if it was the victor.
So he walked.
Not toward the Arsenal end, not yet. But toward the red-and-blue shirts.
He found Scott Dann first, who had fought him tooth and nail all evening—shirt pulls, shoulder barges, tackles that rattled bones. Now Dann sat on the turf, legs stretched, staring blankly into the grass. Francesco extended a hand.
"You were a warrior tonight," Francesco said softly, his accent rolling through the words.
Dann looked up, blinking sweat from his eyes. For a moment, pride and bitterness warred in his face. But then he took the hand. Francesco pulled him up, and Dann gave the smallest of nods. Respect, unspoken but understood.
Next was Mile Jedinak, the Palace's Captain. The Australian midfielder had run himself into the ground, had flung himself into every challenge, every header. He looked utterly spent, his massive frame sagging as he bent over, hands on knees.
Francesco approached, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You left everything out there," Francesco told him.
Jedinak lifted his head, eyes glazed but still burning. "Not enough," he rasped.
Francesco gave him a firm pat. "It never feels like enough when you lose. But it matters. It always matters."
He left Jedinak to his thoughts and moved on, toward Wayne Hennessey. The keeper was still in his box, crouched on his haunches, gloves dangling. He had made saves that could have won the game—saves from Francesco himself—but in the end, it hadn't been enough.
Francesco bent down slightly, offering his hand.
"You were immense," he said. "If not for you, we'd have been gone earlier."
Hennessey looked up at him, eyes tired but grateful, and shook his hand.
And finally, Francesco found Yannick Bolasie, who had given Monreal nightmares in the first half. The winger sat cross-legged, staring at the Palace fans in the distance, his face hollow. Francesco lowered himself down beside him, not saying anything at first, just sharing the silence. After a moment, he spoke.
"You scared us tonight. All of us. You were brilliant."
Bolasie glanced at him, the faintest flicker of a smile crossing his lips. "Doesn't mean much now."
"It does," Francesco replied. "Because I'll remember it. We all will."
They sat in silence another beat before Francesco stood, patting him gently on the back. Then he turned back toward the Arsenal end, where his teammates were gathering, arms aloft, soaking in the glory.
Francesco was still half-lost in the sea of sound, the chants of his name rumbling through his chest, when a hand tapped his arm. He turned, blinking, and saw a suited FA staff member leaning in close, his voice raised to cut through the noise.
"Francesco—this way, please. You've been selected for the post-match interview."
For a moment, Francesco almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He had just poured his soul onto the pitch, had just lived ninety of the most exhausting, exhilarating minutes of his life, and now they wanted him to form words? To stand under the lights and be articulate when his body was still humming with adrenaline and his shirt clung to him like it had been painted on?
But this was part of it. Part of the game, part of the story.
He nodded, exhaling hard, and followed the staffer across the touchline. His boots still felt heavy, every step echoing the sprint from minutes earlier, but the pull of the crowd buoyed him forward. Some fans along the barrier reached out, arms extended, phones aloft. He brushed a few hands with his fingertips as he passed, just enough to give them a moment, a connection, before he was steered toward the sideline setup.
There, under the glare of the camera lights, stood the interviewer: a familiar face, smartly dressed, mic in hand. She gave him a bright, professional smile as he approached, though even she looked slightly flushed—whether from the heat of the lights or from the sheer chaos of the atmosphere, Francesco couldn't tell.
"Francesco," she began as he stepped into position, her voice smooth and clear despite the stadium still vibrating around them. "First of all—congratulations. Arsenal have done it. A hard-fought win tonight at Wembley, and you're through to the FA Cup final."
The words hit him with their full weight. Through to the final.
He drew in a breath, still catching himself, and let a smile spread across his face. "Thank you," he said, his voice a little hoarse but steady. "It's… it's unbelievable, honestly. We knew tonight was going to be a battle. Palace are never easy. They fight, they push, they make it so hard for you. And they did that—every minute. But we kept believing, we kept going, and… yeah. We're there. We're going to the final."
The interviewer nodded, her eyes sharp, guiding him. "It was a game that really seemed to swing back and forth. Palace had their chances, their moments of pressure. What was it like, out there, trying to find the breakthrough?"
Francesco chuckled softly, rubbing at his damp hair. "Chaotic," he admitted. "Sometimes you feel like the whole pitch is tilting against you, like every second ball is falling their way. They had Bolasie, Zaha, their pace on the wings—it's dangerous. And then Hennessey… I don't know how many saves he made, but it felt like ten against me alone. You start to wonder, 'is it going to be one of those nights?' But you can't let that thought stay. You push it out. You keep moving, keep trying."
The interviewer leaned in slightly, her smile widening. "And then, in the decisive moment—it was you. That finish, that roar from the Arsenal end, your name echoing around Wembley. Can you even put into words what that felt like?"
Francesco glanced back toward the stands instinctively. The fans were still there, still singing, still refusing to let the moment die. His throat tightened, and for once, words seemed to falter.
"It's…" He paused, shaking his head slightly. "It's everything. As a kid, I used to imagine scoring goals, imagine the crowd chanting, imagine… nights like this. And then you're actually here, in front of all these people, and they're singing your name. It's…" He exhaled, searching. "It's bigger than you. You realise it's not just about you scoring—it's about all of them, all of us. It's about giving them that joy, that reason to sing. It's… overwhelming, honestly. In the best way."
The interviewer gave a small nod, visibly touched by his honesty. Then her expression shifted, steering him toward the bigger picture. "You talk about the fans, about what this means. But let's talk about Arsenal as a team. You're in the FA Cup final again. The club's history with this competition is massive—what does it mean to be part of writing the next chapter?"
Francesco's eyes lit up. He could feel the history, the weight of it, the lineage of players who had lifted the trophy in red and white. "It means responsibility," he said. "It means pride. Arsenal and the FA Cup—it's tradition, it's part of the club's identity. We all know it. When you pull on this shirt, you're not just playing for yourself, you're carrying all those years, all those memories, all those fans who lived through them. To get to a final… we have the chance to add to that. To be remembered. And that's special. Very special."
The interviewer shifted her grip on the mic, her tone softening just slightly. "And personally, Francesco… this season has been extraordinary for you. Goals in the league, goals in Europe, now goals at Wembley. Do you ever stop to think about what you're achieving? Or is it just one game at a time?"
Francesco gave a low laugh, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushed beneath the lights. "Most of the time it's one game at a time, because if you let your head get too big, football will bring you back down very quickly. But… yeah. Sometimes, in moments like this, you can't help but feel it. You think about the journey, about all the training, all the sacrifices, all the times you doubted yourself. And now… now you're here, scoring in a semi-final at Wembley. It's… it's a dream, honestly. And I don't take it for granted, not one second."
The interviewer smiled, clearly satisfied, but she had one more arrow to shoot. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. "Alright, then. One last question before we let you go celebrate. The final—it's coming. Arsenal are there. What's the message you want to send to the fans tonight, looking ahead to that massive game?"
Francesco took a moment. He looked back again, toward the heaving Arsenal end, their songs still lifting into the night. He felt the weight of their eyes, their faith, their dreams. He let it fill him before speaking.
"The message is simple," he said, his voice firm now, resonant. "We're not done. Tonight was special, but it's not the end. We've got one more step, one more fight, and we're going to give everything—everything—for that trophy. Because these fans, this club, they deserve it. And I promise you—we'll be ready."
The interviewer's smile softened into something genuine, almost personal. She gave him a nod, lowering the mic. "Francesco, congratulations again. Go and enjoy it with your teammates."
He exhaled, almost sagging with relief now that the words were done. The FA staffer guided him away from the lights, and the roar of the fans seemed to swell again, as if welcoming him back. He jogged lightly toward his teammates, toward the cluster of red shirts near the halfway line, arms around each other, singing with the fans.
Francesco jogged back across the grass, his boots still damp from the pitch, the lights of Wembley almost too bright against the night sky. His teammates were there waiting—clutching each other in ragged huddles, singing half-remembered chants, shirts already swapped and hung over shoulders, the steam of sweat still rising off them. It was chaos, but the good kind of chaos—the kind that smelled of triumph, of a door flung open to something greater.
As he slipped into the circle, Per Mertesacker threw an arm around him, dragging him in with that great bear's strength. Olivier Giroud slapped him hard across the back, Alexis Sánchez grinned his wolfish grin, and Héctor Bellerín kept yelling something half in Catalan, half in English that Francesco couldn't even catch over the roar.
The final whistle still felt like it was buzzing in his veins. But there was something else too, something that tugged at him beneath the elation: the sense that tonight wasn't the destination, but just one more stepping stone.
After a few more minutes of celebrating with the supporters, after clapping the stands until his palms stung, the team was finally ushered down the tunnel. The din of Wembley faded behind them, replaced by the tight echo of concrete corridors, the scuff of studs, the dripping of unseen pipes. And then, suddenly, the Arsenal dressing room burst into view—alive, electric, almost unbearable in its noise.
Music was already blasting from someone's speaker. Champagne had been smuggled in, corks popping and fizz spraying over kit bags and massage tables. Shirts were being whipped around above heads like flags, boots clattered onto the floor where players had already peeled them off. Theo Walcott stood on a bench, leading some terrible off-key rendition of North London Forever, and half the squad was trying to keep up through laughter and whoops.
Francesco slipped inside, his hair still wet, his chest heaving, and for a while he let himself just be there. He let the energy of it wash over him: the slap of hands, the embraces, the endless retelling of moments from the match as if they hadn't just all lived through the exact same ninety minutes.
But after a while, something tugged at him again. A quiet thought in the middle of all that chaos. He felt it in his chest like a second heartbeat: this can't be the peak. Not yet.
He climbed up onto one of the benches, the wood slick beneath his boots. At first, no one noticed—they were too caught up in the noise, the laughter, the thrum of the speaker. But then he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.
"HEY!"
The sound cracked through the air like a whip. A few heads turned, then more. Someone killed the music. Theo dropped back down onto his seat. Within moments, the room fell into an expectant hush, the steam of celebration still hanging heavy in the air. All eyes turned to him—faces red, hair plastered down with sweat, eyes shining.
Francesco let the silence hold for a second. He wanted them to feel it—the shift from party to purpose.
He drew a breath, his voice steady but full of fire.
"Listen. Tonight… tonight is massive. We've earned the right to celebrate, because getting to another FA Cup final is never small. But I need you to hear me now: this is not the end. This is not even close to the end."
A ripple went through them—curiosity, focus. Even Sánchez, who hated speeches, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
"We've given everything to get here," Francesco continued, his eyes sweeping the room, catching each teammate in turn. "But we are standing at the edge of something greater—greater than this cup, greater than just this night. We are on the verge of making history. And history doesn't wait for you. You either grab it with both hands, or it slips away."
The words seemed to pulse in the room. Someone—probably Coquelin—murmured a soft "oui" under his breath.
"We are still unbeaten in the Premier League," Francesco said, his voice rising. "Unbeaten. Do you understand what that means? It means we have the chance to do what people thought could never be done again. To bring back the Invincibles. To show the world that Arsenal's spirit is not just something in the past, not just a memory from 2004, but alive right here, in this room, in every one of us. We can be the ones who prove it."
A few fists slammed against lockers, the beginnings of a roar. But Francesco raised a hand, keeping them with him.
"And after that," he pressed on, "the FA Cup final. That's tradition. That's our bloodline as a club. We win there, we add to the story, we carve our names into that trophy's history. But even that—even that—isn't the end."
The room was tight with silence now, every player hooked.
Francesco leaned forward, his voice lower but harder.
"Because in Europe, we have Real Madrid waiting for us. Real Madrid—the kings of the Champions League, the giants who think the cup belongs to them by birthright. But we know different. We've gone toe to toe with Barcelona, with Bayern, with every so-called superpower. And we're still here. Stronger. Smarter. Hungrier. We beat Madrid, we bring Arsenal its first Champions League, the one thing this club has always been denied."
He paused, letting the enormity of it land. He could see it in their faces—the spark of belief, the fire being stoked higher.
"And if we do all that," Francesco finished, his voice like steel, "we write the greatest chapter in Arsenal's history. We don't just win one trophy. We win three. The League. The FA Cup. The Champions League. The Treble. The first Treble in this club's history. Us. Right here, right now. Do you understand how big that is? Do you feel it?"
The room erupted. Cheers, shouts, fists hammered against the walls. Giroud leapt up and hugged him so hard Francesco nearly toppled off the bench. Mertesacker's voice boomed out above the chaos: "Das ist unser Jahr!" Flamini yelled something in French, Bellerín shouted in Spanish, Alexis let out a wordless roar, and Walcott was already trying to turn it into another song.
Francesco laughed, breathless, but the seriousness never left his eyes. He raised both hands to calm them just a little.
"This is our moment," he said, softer now, almost intimate. "It won't come again. We can't waste it. Every training session, every match, every sprint—it all has to be sharper. Focused. Because history doesn't forgive excuses. It only remembers the ones who dared to take it."
When he finally stepped down, the noise surged back with double the force. Music blared again, but now it was different—charged, purposeful, as if his words had given the celebration a second life.
As Francesco dropped back onto the bench beside Alexis, Sánchez smirked at him and gave him a playful shove. "You sound like the manager, hermano," he said, his eyes glinting.
Francesco grinned, breathless, sweat still dripping down his face. "Maybe. But tonight, we needed to hear it."
Wenger, who stood just outside the dressing room door, smiled as he listened to Francesco's speech. For a long moment, he didn't even move, didn't even shift his weight from one polished shoe to the other. His arms were folded lightly across his chest, his thin frame leaning ever so slightly forward, as though he could catch each syllable more clearly if he simply inclined his head.
There was pride in that smile—not the shallow kind, not the surface-level satisfaction of a coach whose team had simply won another semifinal. No, this ran deeper, down into the marrow of him. It was the kind of pride a man rarely gets to feel more than a few times in his life.
Arsène Wenger had lived enough in football to know that talent was plentiful, brilliance even more so. Over decades he had seen boys become men, stars become legends, and legends fade into memories. But leadership—the real, raw kind that could move mountains inside a dressing room—that was rare. That was priceless.
And right now, through that heavy door, he was hearing it in Francesco.
He let the lad speak uninterrupted, hands gripping the air, voice cutting through the champagne-fizz haze of the room. Wenger could hear the rhythm of it, the conviction. He knew that sound. It was the sound of someone not just speaking to teammates but binding them together, stitching invisible thread from one man's chest to another.
A quiet exhale left him.
Yes, he thought. I was right.
When he'd named Per Mertesacker captain at the start of the season, it had been the natural choice—Mertesacker was experienced, respected, cerebral. But Arsène had also known the German's legs would not carry him through the campaign. Behind that decision had been the more daring one: choosing Francesco as the second captain, the one who would inherit the armband in practice as the season wore on.
Many in the press had scoffed at it. A boy, they said. Barely more than a season in the red and white. Talented, yes, electrifying, yes, but still a boy. They had expected Mikel Arteta, or maybe Santi Cazorla. Safe hands. Familiar voices.
But Wenger had seen something different.
He had seen Francesco shouting on the pitch in those moments when others went quiet. He had seen the way teammates turned to him instinctively after a goal—whether scored or conceded. He had seen the way the boy handled pressure, not like a burden but like oxygen. He breathed it in and made himself stronger.
Tonight was proof. Tonight, with the stadium still trembling from victory and the squad drunk on adrenaline, Francesco had given them focus. He had pointed them not just to the next match, not even to the final, but to the very edge of history.
Wenger felt it too.
He straightened slowly, adjusting the cuff of his jacket, and finally pushed the door open.
The dressing room roared around him like a furnace—music, laughter, spraying champagne. But beneath it all was the fresh echo of Francesco's words, still vibrating in the air. Players were pumped, wild-eyed, charged in a way that wasn't just about tonight but about tomorrow.
And as Wenger stepped inside, one or two of them glanced at him with the sheepishness of schoolboys caught red-handed. The volume dipped slightly, as though the headmaster had entered. But Wenger's smile, soft and genuine, reassured them.
"Carry on, carry on," he said in that measured French cadence of his. His hands were raised as if to ward off their restraint. "You have earned this."
Still, his eyes found Francesco across the room. The boy was sitting on the bench again, shoulders damp with champagne, hair plastered against his forehead, Alexis at his side grinning like a devil.
For a heartbeat, Wenger let the sight sink in. The future of Arsenal, wrapped in the body of a 17-year-old striker with a heart twice his size.
He didn't address the room immediately. That wasn't his style—not when he already knew Francesco's words had struck deeper than any coach's could tonight. No, Wenger's role now was to affirm, to shape, to sharpen. He drifted slowly toward the middle of the room, hands clasped lightly behind his back, until the players fell into a quieter rhythm around him.
"Mes amis," he began, voice calm but carrying. "What I heard just now… it makes me very proud. Very proud."
Several players exchanged glances, knowing he must have overheard Francesco's speech.
"I tell you often," Wenger continued, "that football is not only technique, not only tactics. It is spirit. Spirit is what carries you when legs are tired, when pressure is heavy. Tonight, I heard spirit in this room. I heard that you understand what is in front of you."
His gaze passed across them all, but lingered, just a fraction longer, on Francesco.
"You have already achieved something important," he said. "Another FA Cup final. And you have given joy tonight to all of our supporters. But remember what your teammate reminded you: it is not enough. Not yet."
The players were listening, their bodies still humming from the celebration but their attention fixed on him now.
"We fight on three fronts. Premier League. FA Cup. Champions League. Do not think of them as three separate battles. They are one. One journey. One chance to write history. If you give even one percent less in training, in recovery, in matches, you will not succeed. But if you give everything—if you give your hearts together—then I tell you, nothing is impossible."
There it was again, that spark. The same spark Francesco had lit, now fanned into flame by Wenger's quiet authority.
He let the silence hold for a moment before softening. "Now—enjoy your night. You deserve it."
The room erupted again, relief and joy flooding back, but the energy was different now. Sharper. Wenger turned toward the staff at the door, exchanged a small knowing glance with Steve Bould, then let his eyes wander once more to Francesco.
The boy was laughing again, tugged into another chant by Walcott, but Wenger could see the weight of his own words still resting on him. Francesco wasn't just celebrating—he was carrying something. Carrying the future.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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: 55
Goal: 75
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9