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And when he finally drifted to sleep, the dreams that came were not of lifting trophies, not of immortality. They were of ninety minutes under the arch of Wembley, of the ball at his feet, of the roar of the crowd. Of the game itself.
The morning came fast. Faster than Francesco thought it would. Sleep had been patchy, more a series of shallow dives into dreams than anything resembling real rest. But adrenaline had a way of compensating, of pushing a man upright before dawn even settled.
By the time he rolled into London Colney, his BMW crunching gently over the gravel, he realized he wasn't the first. Not even close.
The car park was already full. Bellerín's flashy ride gleamed near the entrance, Alexis' modest SUV was parked crookedly as usual, and somewhere toward the back was Özil's sleek machine, polished to mirror perfection. Francesco slowed as he pulled into a space, looking at the line of cars with a half-smile. They couldn't wait either.
Inside, the atmosphere was hushed but electric. Most of the lads had arrived early — too restless to linger at home, too focused to waste time. They were scattered across the lounge and changing areas, coffee cups in hand, headphones on, some in conversation, others lost in their own pre-match rituals.
Francesco slipped into the room, slinging his small kit bag over his shoulder. Sánchez spotted him first, flashing a grin. "At last! Thought you'd slept in, hermano."
Francesco shook his head, smirking. "Didn't want to show you up by being too early."
The banter loosened the air, but beneath it all was tension. The kind that only existed on matchdays, when everything you'd worked for condensed into ninety brutal minutes.
Before he sat down, Francesco pulled his phone out of his pocket. He tapped quickly, thumbs moving with a kind of nervous precision.
Francesco: Hey love, are you all set? You, mum, dad, and your family on the way to Wembley?
It didn't take long before the screen lit up with Leah's reply.
Leah: Already in the car 😊 Everyone's here — your mum and dad, mine, and Jacob. Don't worry, I've got them all under control.
That made him grin. He could picture her — probably squeezed between Sarah and Amanda, Jacob fidgeting in the back seat, his dad Mike probably debating traffic routes with David in the front. The idea of all of them together, united for him, steadied him.
He typed quickly again:
Francesco: Good. Here's the VIP box ticket link. Scan it when you arrive — should be easy. Make sure dad doesn't try to haggle with the security guys.
He attached the email Wenger's staff had sent him with the access codes and QR tickets. Seconds later Leah replied with a laughing emoji and:
Leah: Already told him he can't negotiate his way into Wembley 😂 Don't worry. Just focus on the game. We'll be cheering for you.
He exhaled slowly, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Just knowing they'd be there, in a box above the chaos, gave him a kind of quiet strength.
When he turned back to the room, Ramsey was scrolling through his phone, humming to himself. Koscielny leaned against the wall, arms folded, looking like a general before battle. Walcott stretched his hamstrings on the carpet, earphones tucked in. Every man, in his own way, was trying to ease the storm inside.
And then Wenger appeared.
Not with a bang. Not with drama. Just with his usual quiet authority — long coat, calm expression, glasses balanced low on his nose. The room shifted the moment he walked in. Conversations dipped, headphones were pulled out, all eyes angled his way.
"Gentlemen," Wenger began, his French lilt steady, "the bus is ready. It is time."
That was it. He didn't need to say more. The gravity in his voice, the way his eyes settled on each player, was enough. Everyone rose, bags lifted, laces checked. The moment was here.
Francesco slung his bag over his shoulder and followed the stream of bodies toward the exit. The chill morning air greeted them as they stepped outside, where the great red team bus loomed, its polished Arsenal crest gleaming on the side.
The bus to Wembley.
The one every boy dreamed of stepping onto, and every man prayed to step off victorious.
The climb aboard was ritualistic. Bellerín made a joke about who had stolen his favorite seat, Alexis barged past Walcott with mock aggression, and Coquelin muttered about the driver playing United songs on the radio last time. But beneath the jokes, the nervous energy was palpable.
Francesco chose a seat midway down, sliding into the window side. He watched as Sánchez took the row in front, already fiddling with his playlist, while Özil sat across the aisle with his usual tranquility, eyes closed as if already picturing the game unfolding.
The engine roared softly to life, and the bus rolled forward.
Francesco glanced out the window. Colney fell away behind them, the training grounds and familiar pitches receding into memory. Ahead, the road stretched into London, into Wembley, into history.
Inside the bus, it was quiet. Too quiet.
Until Wenger stood up at the front, steadying himself against the seat.
"Listen," he said, his voice carrying even without volume. "This ride is not just to a stadium. It is to a moment. Do not waste it with nerves. Do not waste it with fear. Relax. Be calm. Save your energy for when the whistle blows. You are ready. Trust your preparation. Trust your brothers."
He scanned them one by one, his eyes soft but piercing. "I have watched you work. I have seen your hunger. Today, you will show England, and the world, who you are."
Then, with a small nod, he sat again.
The bus carried on.
Francesco let those words sink deep into his chest, where nerves had been buzzing like trapped bees. Slowly, they began to settle.
The lads started talking again — little bursts of conversation. Koscielny and Van Dijk debating United's likely formation. Ramsey teasing Walcott about his haircut. Bellerín showing Kante some new sneakers he had bought online. The normalcy was comforting.
The bus rolled through the streets of London, every turn bringing the great stadium closer. Francesco could see it before most of the lads did — the first sliver of the arch peeking through the skyline like a promise. Even from a distance, Wembley felt massive, like a colossus waiting to test them.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching as fans gathered in red and white clusters along the pavements. Scarves waved, chants broke out, strangers slapped palms against the side of the bus. Some wore the old JVC kits, some the more recent Fly Emirates shirts, but all carried the same energy — belief.
The arch grew bigger, impossibly so, until it dominated the horizon. The noise outside was building too, waves of sound rising and falling as the bus turned into the private entrance. Security cordons, flashing vests, police bikes leading the way. Francesco's chest tightened. He had been here before — as a spectator, as a kid who dreamt — but never like this. Never as the one expected to lead Arsenal out.
The bus slowed, hissed, and finally came to a halt. For a moment, no one moved. Just silence, the hum of the engine, the faint roar of tens of thousands just outside. Then Wenger rose from his seat, his voice calm but steady:
"Gentlemen. Wembley."
One by one, they stood. Bags hoisted, boots clattering, jackets zipped. Francesco followed the line toward the door, stepping down onto the concrete. The air was different here — charged, heavy with history. United's bus was already parked nearby, and a few of their players could be seen in the distance, escorted toward their own dressing room. No glances were exchanged. Not yet.
The Arsenal squad filed through the tunnel and into their dressing room. The smell of liniment, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, the sight of red kits hung neatly on pegs — it was both ordinary and extraordinary. Francesco found his spot, his name and number stitched into the back of the shirt that would soon be on his shoulders. Captain. It still sent a shiver through him.
For now, though, it wasn't time for the match shirt. They swapped into the training tops, white shorts, and light boots. The mood was light but focused. Walcott joked about Alexis lacing his boots tighter than anyone in history, Kante gave his usual quiet smile as he stretched, Özil kept his headphones on until the very last minute.
"Alright, lads," Bould's voice cut through the chatter. "Warm-up."
They filed out into the tunnel, then out onto the pitch.
And there it was. Wembley.
The roar that greeted them was like a living thing, washing over the team as they jogged onto the grass. The stadium was a sea of colour — red and white on one side, United's red and black on the other. Banners waved, chants clashed, camera flashes stuttered like fireworks. Francesco jogged alongside Sánchez, breathing it all in, heart pounding with the rhythm of thousands of feet stamping in the stands.
The warm-up was mechanical but purposeful. Rondos, stretches, passing drills, sprints. The Arsenal players tried to block out the noise, but it was impossible not to feel it seeping in. Every pass drew cheers or jeers. Every shot at the keeper in practice drew applause from the fans behind the goal.
Francesco felt sharp. His touches were clean, his sprints crisp, his finishing ruthless. But it wasn't about proving himself now — it was about loosening the body, keeping the muscles warm without burning too much fuel. Still, when he curled one into the top corner past Cech in a shooting drill, the Arsenal fans in that section erupted, and he couldn't help the small grin that tugged at his lips.
After half an hour, the whistle blew. Warm-up done.
They jogged back in, sweat glistening, breaths misting in the tunnel air. Back in the dressing room, the mood shifted again. The laughter dimmed. The music softened. The match kits were waiting.
Francesco stripped off the training top and pulled on the red and white. The fabric clung tighter, heavier somehow — not in weight, but in meaning. He laced his boots carefully, double-knotting each one with deliberate precision. Around him, the same rituals played out — Walcott rubbing his wrists like always, Koscielny tying and untying his armband before slipping it on, Sánchez shadowboxing in the corner to keep his energy flowing.
And then Wenger spoke.
He didn't shout. He never shouted. His voice was calm, steady, but it held the room with an iron grip.
"This," he began, looking around the circle of faces, "is not just a match. This is the FA Cup final. It is Arsenal, it is Manchester United, it is history. But I do not want you to think of history — not yet. I want you to think of the football. Play the football we have prepared, and the history will come after."
He took a breath, then turned to the whiteboard behind him. The formation was already sketched out.
"Today, we play 4-3-3. Petr in goal," he said, nodding toward Cech, who sat tall, his gloves already on.
The defenders, Wenger continued, "from left to right — Nacho Monreal, Virgil Van Dijk, Laurent Koscielny, and Héctor Bellerín." His gaze lingered on the back line. "Be disciplined. Do not let their forwards find the spaces. Stay compact."
He shifted to the midfield. "N'Golo, you hold. Win the ball, protect the back four, keep it simple. Santi, you control the rhythm. Be the brain. Mesut, you create. You are the link, the key that unlocks the door."
His eyes moved to the wide players. "Alexis on the left, Theo on the right. Use your speed, your energy, your courage. Stretch them, force them back."
Finally, he turned to Francesco. The captain. The striker.
"And you, Francesco. You lead. You press, you finish, you lift the team when they need it. Be the example."
Francesco felt his throat tighten, but he nodded firmly.
Wenger pointed back to the board, listing the substitutes with the same deliberate care: "David Ospina, Per Mertesacker, Francis Coquelin, Mikel Arteta, Aaron Ramsey, Jack Wilshere, Olivier Giroud."
He stepped back from the board, folding his arms.
"This team," Wenger said softly, "is ready. I have seen your work, your sacrifice. Today, I ask only this: trust yourselves. Trust each other. And trust the football. Do not fear them. They will fear you."
A long silence followed. Then Sánchez clapped his hands together sharply. "Vamos, carajo!" he shouted, fire in his eyes.
The room stirred. Walcott thumped his chest. Koscielny muttered something sharp in French to Van Dijk. Cazorla grinned and kissed his wrist.
The buzz in the dressing room was at boiling point now. The kits were on, the boots laced, Wenger's words still ringing in their ears like a hymn. No more whiteboard. No more theory. Only the tunnel. Only Wembley. Only the final.
Francesco stood up, tugging down the hem of his shirt, feeling the weight of the armband against his skin. Captain. The elastic hugged his bicep tighter than usual, or maybe that was just his blood pulsing through it. He glanced around. Every man was ready — Sánchez pacing like a caged lion, Cazorla bouncing on the balls of his feet, Van Dijk calm and towering, Özil serene as if he'd just stepped out of a library instead of into battle.
"Time," Wenger said simply.
They filed out, the echo of studs clattering against the concrete tunnel. The sound was oddly comforting — a chorus of warriors. Francesco walked at the front, his head held high, leading them toward the light.
And then — there they were. Manchester United. Red shirts, black shorts, their line forming just beside Arsenal's. Rooney stood at the head of their column, jaw set, eyes sharp. Behind him: Martial, Rashford, Carrick, Smalling. Familiar faces, dangerous faces. For a heartbeat, the tunnel was nothing but silence, just two teams breathing the same tense air.
Francesco could feel Sánchez beside him, muttering something rapid in Spanish under his breath. Walcott was stretching his neck. Cech stood tall, expression unreadable. Across the way, Rooney gave Francesco a quick, curt nod. The respect of one captain to another.
Then the referee appeared, flanked by his assistants. He raised his hand, giving the signal.
"Alright, gentlemen. Out we go."
And they stepped forward.
The noise hit them like a tidal wave.
Wembley roared, shook, thundered. Red and white banners clashed against United's sea of scarves. Chants crashed into one another, the volume so loud Francesco felt it in his chest more than in his ears. He tilted his head back just for a moment, taking it all in — the arch towering overhead, the pitch stretching out like a battlefield, the cameras flashing in a blinding storm.
This was it.
The players marched across the grass and lined up beside the referee. The ritual began. Handshakes. One by one, Arsenal palms slapped against United's. Francesco met Rooney's grip — strong, firm, neither man breaking eye contact for a second. Martial's handshake was cool, Rashford's nervous but eager, Carrick's steady. Francesco offered each one the same — respect, but nothing more.
The line shuffled forward until the photo ritual came. Arsenal's starting eleven grouped together, arms draped across shoulders, their faces captured by cameras that would beam the image across the world. Francesco stood in the middle, armband gleaming, his eyes locked on the lens. Somewhere up in the VIP box, Leah, his parents, her family — they'd be seeing this. This frozen moment before chaos.
Once the photo broke apart, Francesco turned his focus back to the referee, who beckoned him and Rooney forward.
"Captains," the official said, pulling a coin from his pocket. "Call it in the air."
Rooney looked at Francesco briefly, then nodded to the referee.
"Heads," the United captain said as the coin flicked high, spinning silver under the floodlights.
It clattered against the referee's palm and was revealed — heads.
"United kick-off."
Rooney exhaled through his nose, gave a curt nod, and walked back toward his teammates. Francesco didn't flinch. He just turned on his heel, heading to rally his side into formation.
The whistle blew.
The FA Cup final was underway.
United started sharp, as expected. Rashford was buzzing, darting across the front line, while Martial probed Monreal's flank early. Carrick tried to slow the tempo, but Arsenal's midfield snapped into shape immediately. Kante was a shadow, tracking every loose ball, cutting down space like a scythe through tall grass.
The first real test came in the seventh minute. Martial wriggled free on the left, skipping past Bellerín and whipping in a cross. Rashford met it with a glancing header — but Cech was there. The big man stretched across his line, palming it away with those iron wrists. The Arsenal fans behind the goal exploded into cheers, chanting his name.
But Arsenal didn't just sit back. They bit back.
Sánchez drove down the left in the tenth minute, dragging two defenders before slipping a ball inside to Özil. With a flick of that velvet left foot, Mesut threaded it through to Francesco, who had peeled away from Smalling. One touch, two, then a shot low toward the far corner — but De Gea was equal to it. The Spaniard flung himself down, fingertips pushing it just wide.
The crowd gasped, half in agony, half in awe.
From the corner, Cazorla whipped it in. Van Dijk rose above everyone, thundering a header toward the roof of the net. De Gea again — reflex save, tipping it over.
The opening fifteen minutes became a duel of giants. Cech at one end, De Gea at the other.
17th minute: Rooney tested Cech from distance. A thunderbolt. Cech dove, pushing it away with both hands.
19th minute: Walcott tore through on the counter, fed by Özil. He hammered one toward the near post, but De Gea smothered it.
By the twentieth minute, the scoreboard still read 0-0, but the save count told its own story.
Cech: four saves.
De Gea: four saves.
The two goalkeepers were keeping the final alive, defying gravity and statistics, keeping Wembley balanced on a knife's edge.
Francesco jogged back into position after another attack fizzled out, chest heaving, sweat already slick across his temples. He glanced toward the stands where red-and-white flags whipped furiously in the breeze of voices.
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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, 2015/2016 Community Shield, and 2016/2017 Premier League
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 56
Goal: 78
Assist: 10
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9