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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.
The days trickled away after the semifinal, each one weighted with a strange mixture of routine and destiny. Arsenal kept training, kept grinding, kept their focus sharp because they knew what lay at the end of the road: a chance to etch themselves alongside history. Not just as winners. Not just as champions. But as immortals—an Invincible season reborn, a feat so few had dared to dream possible again after 2004.
And then, like the final chime of a clock tower, 15 May 2016 arrived.
The sun shone in through the Colney windows that morning with a clarity that made the grass outside glow like velvet. The training pitches sat empty now, still damp with dew, while inside, the squad gathered. There was a tension in the air, not the suffocating kind but the sharp, tingling electricity of anticipation.
Francesco sat on the edge of a bench in the players' lounge, his kit bag at his feet, already zipped and ready. Around him, teammates joked, some listened to music, others scrolled through their phones. But beneath all of it was the knowledge of what today was. What it could be.
The coaches ushered them toward the exit where the bus was waiting, sleek and gleaming in the morning light. As Francesco rose with the others, he caught a glimpse of Per Mertesacker at the front, tall frame cutting a calm figure, and Alexis bouncing a ball off his knee with restless energy.
The players began filing out, the sound of boots and trainers against tile echoing in the hallways.
When Francesco stepped onto the bus, the scent of leather and polish hit him first, followed by the low hum of chatter. He slid into his usual seat by the window, set his bag beside him, and instinctively reached for his phone.
Outside, Colney's gates swung wide, and as the bus rolled forward, the players leaned against the glass, watching the familiar Hertfordshire countryside unfurl into motion. The first stretch was calm, but it didn't stay that way for long.
By the time they reached closer to London, they began to see it—clumps of red and white on the pavements, scarves swinging in the morning air.
The fans.
They were already on the move, headed toward the Emirates, singing loudly enough that it seemed to carry even through the glass. Some spotted the bus and erupted, flags waving, children on shoulders bouncing with excitement.
"Francesco! Alexis! Arsenal!" they shouted, their voices almost swallowed by the rush of cars but still sharp, still reaching.
Inside, the lads grinned and nudged each other. Héctor Bellerín pressed his face comically to the window, Theo Walcott snapped a quick photo with his phone, and Francis Coquelin tapped the glass as though drumming in rhythm with the chants.
Francesco smiled too, but his smile was softer, quieter. Because while he loved the energy outside, his attention was being pulled elsewhere.
To his phone.
The screen lit up, and there it was—Leah's name.
Leah ❤️: We're here already. The stadium looks beautiful. Packed with red. I wish you could see it from this side.
Francesco's thumb hovered for only a second before tapping out his reply.
Francesco: I'll see it soon enough. But knowing you're there makes it even better. Where are you sitting?
A moment passed, then her reply came, fast as ever.
Leah ❤️: VIP box. With your mum and dad. And my parents. Jacob too. He's already eaten half the food in here 😂
He chuckled under his breath, picturing Jacob Williamson with his plate piled high, while Amanda probably scolded him and David shook his head. His own parents, Sarah and Mike, would be more reserved but glowing with pride. He imagined his mother's anxious hands folded in her lap, his father's steady eyes scanning the pitch long before kickoff.
Another buzz.
Leah ❤️: They're so proud of you, you know. All of them. I am too.
Francesco leaned his head against the glass for a moment, the London streets sliding by in blurs of red and white. His chest tightened—not with nerves, not exactly. It was something deeper. The knowledge that today wasn't just for him or the lads or even Wenger. It was for everyone who had carried them here.
His fingers danced again across the screen.
Francesco: I'll make them proud today. I'll make you proud. We'll finish this.
The reply came almost instantly, as though she had been waiting for it.
Leah ❤️: You already have. Just go and enjoy it. Win it. Make history.
He slid the phone back into his pocket but carried her words with him like a talisman.
The bus pulled deeper into North London now, and the crowds thickened. Everywhere he looked, there was Arsenal—scarves, shirts, flags, banners. Even lampposts seemed wrapped in red. The chants rose louder, reverberating through the air like an anthem.
From his seat, Olivier Giroud leaned across the aisle and muttered, "Feels like the whole city's with us."
"They are," Aaron Ramsey answered, his Welsh lilt certain. "They know what's at stake."
Wenger, seated near the front, didn't interrupt. He rarely did in these moments. He let the energy swell, let the players feel the weight and the gift of it. His eyes, though, scanned back, resting once on Francesco, as though silently reminding him: This is your stage.
And Francesco knew it.
Today wasn't just a match against Aston Villa, who were already condemned to relegation. It was the final chapter in a season written in sweat, grit, and unyielding belief. One last hurdle to immortality.
As the Emirates loomed into view, the bus slowed. The stadium rose like a cathedral of glass and steel, sunlight gleaming off its curves. And around it—everywhere—were thousands upon thousands of fans.
The chants shook the air. "We are the Arsenal, we are the Invincibles, we are the champions!"
The bus crawled forward, cutting through the sea of red. Fans pressed to the barriers, waving, screaming, some holding signs painted with Francesco's name, others lifting cardboard cutouts of Wenger, Alexis, and Özil.
Francesco's heart thudded as he saw it all. The city. The people. The history waiting just on the other side of those gates.
He pressed his hand briefly to the window, almost unconsciously, and whispered to himself, "For all of them."
The bus doors hissed open. One by one, the players stepped down into the roar, headphones around necks, jackets zipped tight. Security kept a corridor, but the noise still poured over them in waves. Cameras clicked, lenses flashing, broadcasters already live.
The tunnel swallowed them whole, the roars outside fading into the hum of fluorescent lights and the muffled squeak of trainers against the floor. The air inside the Emirates was cooler, tinged faintly with turf and disinfectant, a different kind of sacredness compared to the chaos outside.
They filed into the dressing room—bright, wide, the lockers gleaming with each kit hung perfectly, boots lined beneath like soldiers waiting for their march. There was a calm efficiency to the routine. Kitmen had laid everything out: socks folded, shin pads placed neatly, jerseys shining in the light.
But not yet. Not the match kits.
Instead, the squad pulled on their training gear, the grey and red warm-up tops, the looser shorts, boots chosen for the pre-match ritual. Francesco tugged his top over his head, the fabric whispering against his skin, and felt the adrenaline stir deeper. This was the part he loved—the quiet before the storm, the process of stepping gradually into the fire.
"Right, lads," Steve Bould called, clapping his hands once. "Let's get to it."
The players shuffled out, boots clattering against the tunnel floor again, before spilling onto the pitch.
And then—noise.
The stadium was already buzzing, the stands painted in Arsenal red, flags whipping in the air, chants rolling like waves. The fans were pouring their lungs out even though kickoff was still a while away. Francesco jogged out with the others, heart tightening in his chest at the sight. This was their fortress. Their cathedral. Today, more than ever, it felt alive.
They spread out for stretches and drills. Bellerín and Sánchez began juggling the ball between them, flicks and backheels just to loosen their legs. Koscielny and Van Dijk moved through short passing sequences, crisp and sharp. Goalkeepers Cech and Ospina split off with Gerry Peyton for their warm-ups, gloves snapping as balls fired at them.
Francesco moved through his routine methodically—stretch, jog, sprints, ball control, finishing drills. The air felt different against his skin, each breath sharper, clearer, as if the entire city had funneled its energy into this one ground.
As he turned after a sprint toward the halfway line, he caught sight of the sidelines.
The media.
Camera crews swarmed the edge of the pitch, microphones up, voices carrying. And among them, the unmistakable set-up of Sky Sports. Their glass panel desk glowed in the sun, the logos flashing in red and blue. Seated behind it: Gary Neville, his expression sharp as always; Jamie Carragher, gesturing animatedly with his hands; Ian Wright, beaming like the place belonged to him.
But what froze Francesco for a beat were the others.
Roy Keane, arms folded, gaze as cutting as ever. Patrick Vieira, tall and commanding, every movement deliberate. And Thierry Henry—his idol, his ghost, his shadow, his standard—sitting with that quiet poise that made him look like he was still Arsenal's king.
Francesco jogged a little closer, not too far from his teammates, ball at his feet. Their eyes found him. Henry's especially.
He smiled. Raised a hand. "Alright, lads?" he called, voice light enough to carry but not enough to break his focus.
Wrighty grinned, pumping a fist in the air. "Go on, Francesco!"
Henry nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips, and even Keane gave the faintest dip of his chin.
That was enough. Francesco dipped his head, turned, and went straight back into the drill lines. Because as much as he admired them, today wasn't about pleasantries. Today was about proving, once and for all, that he belonged not just beside their names, but above them.
The warm-up moved quickly after that. Passing patterns. Rondo drills. Short sprints. Finishing runs on Cech. Francesco buried two, missed one, then slotted another into the bottom corner with that snap of his boot that felt like second nature now. Each strike steadied him, carved the nerves into focus.
And then it was done.
They jogged back toward the tunnel, fans applauding loudly, the chants swelling as if the stadium itself were winding tighter, preparing for eruption. Francesco glanced once more around the ground. He saw Leah in the VIP box, standing beside his mother, scarf wrapped around her shoulders, clapping as hard as anyone. His chest tightened again, and he let that be his last glance before vanishing back inside.
The dressing room was quieter now. No laughter, no chatter. Just the sound of boots being pulled off, training tops stripped away, replaced by the final armour. The match kits.
The red jerseys glowed beneath the lights, bold and defiant, the cannon crest stitched like fire against the heart. Francesco slipped his over his head slowly, reverently, as though donning something sacred. Captain's armband sat neatly on the bench beside it. He'd put that on last.
Wenger stood at the center of the room, his suit crisp, his eyes calm but fierce. He waited until every man was seated, every jersey pulled on, before he began.
"Gentlemen," he said softly, his voice carrying the kind of weight that made everyone lean in. "Today is the end of a journey. And the beginning of something eternal."
He let the words linger, then continued.
"We do not play only for ourselves today. We play for history. For the people who filled this stadium. For the millions who wear our colours across the world. For every player who came before you—and for every child who will dream because of you."
The silence was absolute. You could have heard a bootlace drop.
Wenger paced slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.
"They will remember today. They will remember this team, this season, for as long as Arsenal exists. And what they will remember is how you finish. How you take your chance to become Immortals."
He stopped, turned, and looked around the room, one by one.
"Petr," he said, nodding toward the keeper, "in goal."
Cech sat straighter, tugging at his gloves.
"Nacho, Virgil, Laurent, Héctor—our wall, our strength."
Each defender nodded, their eyes burning.
"N'Golo." Wenger's lips curled into the faintest smile. "You will be everywhere, as you always are."
Kanté grinned, almost shy, but his fists clenched tighter.
"Santi—dictate the rhythm. Mesut—find the spaces no one else sees."
The Spaniard and the German shared a brief glance, a silent acknowledgment.
"Alexis, Jack—tear them apart. Stretch them, torment them."
Sánchez bounced his leg restlessly, while Wilshere rolled his shoulders, eager.
"And Francesco." Wenger paused. The room seemed to still around him. "You are our striker. Our captain. Our leader. Today, you carry the armband because you have carried us all season. Finish what you started."
Francesco met his manager's gaze, heart pounding like a war drum. He reached for the armband, slid it up his left arm, and tightened it. The fabric pressed into his skin like a vow.
Wenger drew in a slow breath.
"The formation is simple. 4-3-3. We control the midfield, we stretch them wide, we finish clinically. We respect Aston Villa, but we do not fear them. Not today. Not here."
He nodded toward the bench.
"Ospina. Gibbs. Coquelin. Arteta. Ramsey. Iwobi. Giroud. All ready. All important. This is a team of 18, not 11."
The manager stepped back now, giving the floor to the players themselves. But before the quiet could linger, Mertesacker's voice rumbled from the corner.
"Let's make it perfect," the German said simply.
Alexis growled, "Vamos, carajo," slapping his chest.
Koscielny stood, clapping his hands once. "Together. Always together."
Francesco rose last. His eyes swept the room—his brothers, his family, the men who had carried him through fire and glory. He spoke quietly, but with a conviction that carried.
"No regrets," he said. "Not today. We walk out there, we fight, we win. And we write our names where no one can erase them."
A roar erupted, fists thumping into chests, hands clapping shoulders, voices raised. The kind of roar that wasn't just noise but belief made sound.
And then the kitmen opened the doors.
The kitmen opened the doors, and the roar of the Emirates spilled inside like a tidal wave. The players rose as one, boots clattering against tile, shirts stretched tight across their chests. The moment was almost here.
But outside the dressing room, in the gleaming glass box perched high above the halfway line, another scene was unfolding.
The Sky Sports commentary panel was already live, cameras panning across a lineup of legends. Behind them, the Emirates pulsed with anticipation, every seat filling, every flag waving. On screen, the words stretched bold across the bottom ticker:
"Final Day – Arsenal chase history: Invincible season on the line."
Gary Neville leaned forward first, tapping his pen against the desk. His expression was serious, but his voice carried that sharp Mancunian edge.
"Look, lads, I've said it all week. What Arsenal are going for today—it's remarkable. Twenty years since the last Invincibles, and here they are, ninety minutes away from repeating it. Now, people might say, 'Oh, it's Aston Villa, bottom of the table, already relegated.' But I tell you this—pressure doesn't care who you're playing. Pressure doesn't care if it's Barcelona or Barnsley. When history is on the line, your legs feel heavy, your lungs burn, and every misplaced pass feels like a disaster."
Jamie Carragher was already nodding, his hands moving animatedly as if he was still barking orders at Anfield.
"Spot on, Gary. Look, I've been in title races, Champions League finals, but this? This is unique. An unbeaten season—it's mythical. You've got teams winning trebles, you've got dynasties, but staying unbeaten over thirty-eight games? That's different gravy. And Francesco Lee—this lad's got the weight of all of it on his shoulders today. Captain's armband, leading the line, knowing if he slips, if he misses, that's the story tomorrow morning. That's massive pressure for a kid still in his seventeen."
Ian Wright, sitting between them, couldn't help but grin, shaking his head with pride. His voice boomed, warm, emotional.
"Carra, Gaz—you're right about the pressure, no doubt. But let me tell you something about that boy, Francesco. He was made for this. You don't carry Arsenal on your back at seventeen if you're not cut from something special. The lad's got ice in his veins. And more than that—he loves this club. You can see it in every touch, every celebration. Thierry knows what I'm talking about."
All eyes shifted to Henry. He sat poised, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. His eyes scanned the pitch below, his old cathedral, before he finally spoke, voice smooth and deliberate.
"When I look at Francesco," Henry said softly, "I see someone who understands what it means to wear this shirt. Not just to score goals—any striker can score goals—but to lead. To inspire. To carry the weight of expectations and still demand more of himself. That is rare."
He paused, his gaze flicking briefly toward the Arsenal tunnel, where the players would soon emerge.
"But Ian is right—today is heavy. Heavy for him, heavy for the whole team. I remember 2004. The pressure, even when we had already won the league, to not lose. Every opponent wanted to be the one to break us. And Francesco will feel that. Aston Villa—yes, they are bottom. But today, they will fight like lions because nobody wants to be remembered as the team Arsenal beat to become Invincible again."
Roy Keane leaned back in his chair, arms folded, lips curled in that familiar skeptical smirk. His Irish brogue cut through like a blade.
"Listen, all this talk about pressure—I get it. But at the end of the day, they're playing Aston Villa. If Arsenal can't beat Aston Villa at home with what's on the line, then they don't deserve to be called Invincible, simple as that. You can talk about nerves, about weight of history, but champions don't crumble. This Arsenal team's been excellent all year, no doubt, but this is the real test. Let's see if they've got the mentality."
Carragher gave a little laugh. "That's Keano for you. No sympathy."
"Why should I have sympathy?" Keane shot back, his eyes narrowing. "I've been in dressing rooms on the final day. You either deliver or you don't. No excuses. Villa will want to embarrass them, make no mistake. So Arsenal better come out flying, or else they'll be remembered as bottlers, not heroes."
That got a little chuckle out of Vieira, who had been quiet until now, his deep voice finally rumbling into the conversation.
"Roy, you talk about mentality," Vieira said, his French accent still rich with his playing days in England. "But mentality is not about shouting or about being aggressive. Mentality is also about control, about calm. And that is what impresses me about this Arsenal team—they have balance. Kante, Cazorla, Özil—they bring calm. And Francesco—he is not like Thierry, not like Wrighty, not like me. He is his own type of leader. He does not shout much, but he speaks with his football."
Henry leaned slightly toward his old captain, smiling. "You're saying I shouted too much, Pat?"
Vieira's lips twitched into a grin. "No, I am saying you shouted the right amount. But Francesco… he carries himself differently. He reminds me a little of Dennis."
At that, Wright slapped the desk with a laugh. "Oh, mate, that's the biggest compliment you can give him. Dennis Bergkamp, come on!"
Even Neville raised his brows. "That's high praise, Patrick. Very high."
Vieira shrugged. "We will see today if he deserves it."
The camera panned briefly to show shots of the Arsenal fans waving flags, then Villa players warming up, before returning to the panel.
Carragher leaned forward, his voice shifting back into analysis.
"Let's talk about the lineup, because Wenger's gone strong. No surprises, but Jack Wilshere starting on the right—that's a big call. Walcott's out injured, and Wilshere isn't a natural winger. But what he does give you is drive, that ability to carry the ball inside and link with Özil. That could be key."
Neville nodded, adding, "And look, the back four—Monreal, Van Dijk, Koscielny, Bellerín—it's solid. Van Dijk's been a monster all season. If you're Aston Villa, where do you find a weakness in that? You're relying on counter-attacks and set pieces."
Keane snorted. "If Villa score today, it'll be from a mistake. Arsenal just have to keep their heads."
Henry, though, shook his head slightly. "It is not that simple, Roy. Pressure makes mistakes. One slip, one bad pass, and Villa can punish them. This is why Francesco must be ruthless. When the chance comes, he must take it. One goal early, and the whole stadium breathes easier."
Wright grinned. "And if he scores, you know this place is gonna explode. You saw them when he came out for warm-up—his name was all over the stands. The fans love him. You get the feeling, don't you, lads? Like it's meant to be him today."
Carragher raised a brow. "Yeah, but football doesn't care about fairytales, Wrighty."
Wright just shrugged, still smiling. "Sometimes it does."
The panel went quiet for a moment as the noise of the stadium swelled behind them, the chants of "We are the Arsenal!" rolling like thunder. The clock ticked closer to kickoff.
Neville finally broke the silence.
"Well, lads. Ninety minutes from history. They've done the hard work all season. Now it comes down to this. One more game. One more step. Can Arsenal do it? Can Francesco Lee finish the job?"
The camera zoomed out slowly, catching the glowing Emirates behind the panel, a cauldron waiting to ignite.
The whistle blew.
The Emirates, already a storm of red and white, rose as one. Scarves spun, flags whipped through the air, and a thousand chants fused into a single deafening roar. Arsenal kicked off, the ball zipping across green turf that looked almost too perfect, like it had been painted just for this moment.
From the first touch, you could feel it—Arsenal weren't here to hesitate, they weren't here to play cagey football. They came out like men possessed. The midfield triangle of Cazorla, Kanté, and Özil started to tick like a Swiss watch, passes one-touch, crisp, sharp. Villa barely saw a sniff of the ball in the opening minutes, their claret shirts already chasing shadows.
Inside the ground, the fans were loud but tense, the kind of noise that came from throats half-singing, half-praying. An unbeaten season was dangling in front of them, just ninety minutes away, and every second mattered.
And then—five minutes in—it happened.
Monreal darted forward from left-back, a marauding run he had perfected all season, his boots eating up grass as Özil slipped the ball into his stride. The Spaniard didn't hesitate. He didn't take a touch inside or cut back. Instead, he glanced once at the box, saw a flash of movement, and swung his left foot through the ball.
The cross arced through the air, perfect—one of those deliveries defenders hate, curving away from them, dropping into the exact corridor where hesitation equals disaster.
Francesco Lee was already there.
Seventeen years old, but in that instant he moved with the authority of a man twice his age. He ghosted between Villa's centre-halves, timing it perfectly. His body lifted, arms spread for balance, eyes locked on the spinning ball. For a fraction of a second, time slowed—the roar of the Emirates seemed to hush, the green blades of grass beneath him blurred.
Then—thud.
His forehead met leather. Clean. True. The ball snapped downward, angling just beyond Mark Bunn's desperate dive.
Back of the net.
The Emirates exploded.
The kind of explosion that shakes foundations, that makes grown men leap into strangers' arms, that rattles glass in the commentary box above. Francesco wheeled away, fists clenched, eyes blazing. He sprinted toward the corner flag, slid on his knees, and was instantly swallowed by a red swarm of teammates. Cazorla leapt onto his back, Özil ruffled his hair, and Koscielny came charging all the way from defence just to embrace his captain.
"HE'S DONE IT AGAIN!" Martin Tyler's voice cracked through the broadcast, almost lost beneath the sheer wall of sound. "FRANCESCO LEE—THE CAPTAIN, THE KID, THE SYMBOL OF THIS TEAM—AND ARSENAL STRIKE FIRST IN THEIR DATE WITH HISTORY!"
The cameras cut to the stands—supporters in tears, arms raised to the heavens, mouths open in disbelief and joy. A father hugged his young son, lifting him into the air like the goal had come from his own bloodline.
On the panel above the pitch, Ian Wright was on his feet, punching the air, his chair half-toppled behind him.
"That's my boy! That's my boy!" Wrighty shouted, laughing like a man who had just won the lottery.
Henry, though smiling, shook his head slowly, almost in awe. "You see? This is what I mean. Big players, big moments. He doesn't wait, he doesn't hide. He takes it."
Neville scribbled something onto his notes but was grinning despite himself. "Seventeen years old, lads. Seventeen. That header's about movement, timing, composure—that's not something you coach. That's instinct. World-class instinct."
Down on the pitch, Francesco rose from the embrace of his teammates, his chest heaving, sweat already glistening on his forehead. He glanced up at the stands, at the banners painted with his name, at the endless red shirts. For just a flicker, he allowed himself a smile—a boy's smile, unguarded, almost shy.
But then his expression hardened. One goal wasn't enough. Not today. Not when history demanded perfection.
The match restarted, and Arsenal didn't let up. They hunted Villa like predators circling prey. Kanté broke up every attempted counter with that tireless engine, snapping into tackles, popping up wherever the danger lurked. Özil floated between the lines, his passes cutting Villa open like a scalpel. Cazorla orchestrated, always available, always calm, swiveling away from pressure with that low centre of gravity.
And Francesco? He was everywhere. Dropping deep to link play, darting wide to drag defenders, then bursting into the box with ruthless intent. Every time Monreal or Bellerín bombed forward, the Villa backline looked terrified, glancing nervously to see where Arsenal number 9 was lurking.
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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: 56
Goal: 76
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