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 hesitated for only a heartbeat before taking the trophy into his hands. The weight of it nearly staggered him — not because it was heavy, but because of what it meant. He lifted it above his head, letting the floodlights catch its gleam, and the Arsenal supporters roared even louder. Confetti still littered the pitch, swirling around his boots as he shouted up into the stands.
The next morning, London awoke to a different kind of sunrise. The sky was the same pale spring blue, the city the same restless heartbeat of buses, trains, and footsteps. But in every café window, on every street corner kiosk, in every living room where the television hummed before work — Arsenal were everywhere.
Headlines blared in bold across the back pages:
"WEMBLEY KINGS!" shouted The Guardian.
"ARSENAL DOUBLE DELIGHT: PREMIER LEAGUE + FA CUP" declared The Times.
"HISTORY REWRITTEN – AND IT'S NOT OVER YET" wrote The Independent.
Spanish outlets had their say too, framing it as the prelude to an even bigger clash. Marca splashed: "El Arsenal amenaza al Madrid en San Siro" — Arsenal threatens Madrid in San Siro.
Even in Germany, Kicker wrote about Arsenal's rebirth under Wenger, dubbing them "Die Unerschütterlichen" — The Unshakeable. France's L'Équipe gave them the cover: "Les Invincibles 2.0?"
Everywhere, the story was the same: Arsenal had not only lifted the Premier League, but also the FA Cup. A domestic double. And now, in just under a fortnight, they would march to Milan to try and complete what once seemed unthinkable — the treble, sealed in the cauldron of the Champions League final against Real Madrid.
At London Colney, there was no time for hangovers of celebration. Wenger had always been a believer that glory is only borrowed, never owned. The moment you grasp it, it begins to slip, unless you keep both hands ready for the next battle.
The players arrived with heavy eyes but light steps. Some wore sunglasses to mask the fatigue of champagne-soaked nights. Others, like Kante, seemed as fresh as though nothing had happened, already in full training kit, jogging lightly to loosen his legs.
Francesco stepped out of his BMW X5, medal still hanging from the rearview mirror. Leah had dropped him off that morning, still laughing about how they'd stayed awake past three scrolling through social media — clip after clip of his goal, of the celebrations.
Inside the canteen, the banter was relentless. Giroud mimed lifting the cup every time someone passed him. Bellerín had already changed his phone's background to a picture of him biting the medal. Sánchez teased Koscielny for crying during the lap of honour, though his own red eyes hadn't gone unnoticed.
But Wenger's arrival stilled the noise. He wasn't stern — he didn't need to be. He simply stood there, immaculate in his suit, eyes soft but focused, as he placed both hands on the table before him.
"Congratulations, mes amis," he said, his voice calm yet resonant. "You have done something special. A double. Thirteen FA Cups. But now…" — he let the pause stretch — "…now we prepare for the greatest test. Real Madrid. Cristiano Ronaldo. Benzema. Bale. The world will be watching. And I want them to see Arsenal — the Arsenal we know, the Arsenal you have built."
His gaze swept across the room, catching Francesco's eyes for just a second longer than the rest.
By lunchtime, Francesco's phone hadn't stopped buzzing. He had dozens of interview requests waiting. Sky Sports, BBC Sport, ESPN, RAI, even CBS News in America wanted his voice. His Instagram had exploded overnight — ten million followers, up from seven the previous week. His goal against United was already trending as "Thunderstrike at Wembley."
Leah teased him over FaceTime as she sat with her Arsenal Women teammates at training. "Careful, superstar. At this rate, you'll need a bodyguard just to get to Tesco."
But Francesco, though grinning, felt the weight. This wasn't just about him anymore. It was about Arsenal carrying the dreams of every fan who had waited since 2006 for another Champions League final. It was about Wenger's legacy, perhaps his final chance to cement immortality.
Every day leading to the final was dissected.
On Spanish TV, pundits debated how Arsenal's midfield trio of Kante, Cazorla, and Özil could cope with Luka Modric, Toni Kroos, and Casemiro. On El Chiringuito, Josep Pedrerol declared confidently: "El Madrid tiene demasiada experiencia. Ronaldo, Bale, Benzema… no fallarán en una final."
In England, the tone was different. Ian Wright on Match of the Day leaned forward, pointing at clips of Francesco's goal-scoring form. "Listen, I've played here, I know what pressure does. But this lad — he thrives on it. He ain't scared of Real Madrid. If anything, they should be scared of him."
Thierry Henry, on Sky's analysis panel, was even more direct. "Francesco is the closest thing I've seen to myself in an Arsenal shirt — but he might go further. He has this hunger. This refusal to shrink. Against Madrid, it will not be about moments, it will be about courage. And he has it."
In Milan, preparations at the San Siro were already underway. Giant banners were being prepared. Hotels were fully booked. The city was buzzing, half for Madrid, half for Arsenal.
The day Arsenal boarded the flight to Milan began like any other, but beneath the surface, it hummed with a different current.
Francesco woke early, hours before his alarm, unable to sleep through the restless tide of thoughts in his chest. His bags had been packed since the night before: neatly folded suits for media duties, his training gear, and of course, his boots — polished and gleaming, as if he were preparing not just for a match but for a coronation. Leah sat with him at breakfast, the two of them quiet, their conversation unspoken. She didn't need to tell him how much this meant. He didn't need to ask if she believed in him. Their silence was heavy with trust.
When the team gathered at London Colney before heading to the airport, there was a strange mix of normalcy and surrealism. Some players laughed to cover nerves; others sat in quiet contemplation. Wenger moved through the group like a conductor, speaking little, but his presence alone steadied the atmosphere.
The plane was Arsenal's private charter, the kind usually reserved for clubs at this level of competition. The interior buzzed with small talk and the occasional burst of laughter. Giroud was teasing Monreal about his choice of playlist. Özil sat with his hood up, headphones in, his eyes closed but his fingers tapping against his thigh, betraying the rhythm of his music. Cazorla shuffled a deck of cards, grinning as he tried to coax teammates into a game.
Francesco sat by the window, watching London shrink below him as the engines roared and the city blurred into a patchwork of greens and greys. He pressed his forehead lightly against the glass, his breath fogging it slightly. This was it. The beginning of the final march. He thought of his boyhood self, kicking a battered ball in Emilia, dreaming of the big stadiums he only ever saw on television. Now he wasn't just going to one — he was going to the San Siro, to play in a Champions League final against Real Madrid.
The flight was just over two hours, but to Francesco, it felt both like a heartbeat and a lifetime. He drifted between light naps and moments of clarity, jolting awake each time his mind replayed an image of Cristiano Ronaldo bearing down on goal, or Sergio Ramos lunging into a tackle.
When the captain announced they were descending into Milan Malpensa, the cabin filled with the usual shuffle of seatbelts and stretching legs, but there was a subtle shift too — a collective inhale. Everyone knew they were stepping into history.
As they disembarked, the late spring Italian sun greeted them, warm and golden, casting long shadows across the tarmac. The airport buzzed with media, cameras clicking in rapid bursts, reporters shouting questions in English, Spanish, and Italian. Security and UEFA officials guided them swiftly through, but Francesco could feel the weight of eyes on him. He caught snippets of phrases — "il bomber," "il figlio d'Italia," "la minaccia di Madrid."
On the team bus, the players finally relaxed a little. The coach rumbled through the highways, weaving past billboards plastered with advertisements for the final. The city itself seemed alive with anticipation; every corner carried signs of what was coming. Posters of Ronaldo, Bale, and Benzema stared down from walls, but beside them were equally giant images of Francesco, Alexis, and Özil.
They reached their hotel, a five-star fortress tucked into the heart of the city. By then, exhaustion from the day had caught up with them. After a quick dinner in a private hall — where Giroud still somehow had the energy to crack jokes, and Kante still ate as if nothing in the world could fluster him — the players retreated to their rooms.
Francesco lay on the plush bed, staring at the ceiling as the city hummed outside. He could hear faint echoes of fans singing in the distance, their voices carrying through the Milanese night. He let the sound lull him, a reminder that football was bigger than him, bigger than them all. He drifted to sleep with the thought of the San Siro glowing in his dreams.
⸻
The next morning, the schedule was already laid out. After breakfast, they would travel to Appiano Gentile — the Pinetina, Inter Milan's training ground. Inter had graciously lent it to Arsenal for their preparations, a gesture that spoke of football's fraternity despite rivalries.
The bus ride north was serene. The city gave way to rolling countryside, green fields stretching toward distant hills. The players, though, were not admiring the scenery. They were quiet, each lost in his own head. Some had headphones in, others simply stared out the window.
Francesco sat near Sánchez and Bellerín, occasionally chiming into their soft conversation but mostly keeping to himself. He traced the lines of his thoughts: how to outsmart Ramos, how to find space against Casemiro, how to time his runs so that Özil's passes could find him in that half-second of freedom.
When they arrived at Pinetina, it was like stepping into another world. The facility was immaculate: pristine pitches stretching like green velvet under the sun, the smell of freshly cut grass sharp in the air. Inter staff greeted them warmly, handshakes all around, a few in Italian to Francesco — "In bocca al lupo, ragazzo," one said, patting his back. Good luck, boy.
Training began lightly, the usual rondos to loosen up. But soon Wenger had them working drills specifically designed for Madrid. High pressing patterns, quick transitions from defense to attack, rehearsed counters.
Steve Bould barked instructions, his voice carrying across the field. "Tighter! Don't give Modric that time! Shift across quicker!"
Wenger, more measured, paused drills to emphasize positioning. "Look here," he said, motioning to Coquelin and Kante, "this is where Casemiro will try to break. Don't let him. Force him wide. Push them to the wings. That's where their fullbacks commit, and that's where we find space."
Francesco thrived in the finishing drills. Every ball played into him, he struck cleanly, crisply, his shots thundering into the net. Each goal felt like a promise to himself. But he knew it wouldn't be that easy against Neuer's equal — against Keylor Navas.
As the session wound down, Wenger gathered them into a circle at the center of the pitch. The sun was high, glinting off sweat-streaked brows. The air was thick with the smell of grass and effort.
"You see now," Wenger said, his voice quiet but carrying. "This is not just another match. This is history. Real Madrid will test you like no one else. But you are ready. You have faced Barcelona. You have won the league. You have won the cup. You have fought for each other, every step. Do not forget who you are."
He looked at Francesco last. "And you — remember: goals win matches. But leadership wins finals. Be both."
Francesco nodded, his chest tightening with pride and responsibility.
They jogged off to applause from the small group of Inter staff still lingering. The air was lighter now, the players loosening into laughter as they boarded the bus back to the hotel.
The morning of the press conference arrived with a different kind of tension.
Milan had woken restless, its streets already humming with tourists, journalists, and fans wrapped in scarves of white or red. The hotel where Arsenal were based had been transformed into a fortress: barricades at the entrance, police keeping order, and fans chanting outside from dawn. Some held up banners of Francesco's face, painted in bold strokes like a saint of the game. Others carried Madrid flags, jeering at the Arsenal supporters with chants of "Hala Madrid" that pierced the air like taunts across a battlefield.
Inside, however, the atmosphere was quieter, tighter.
Arsène Wenger had summoned Francesco and Mesut Özil to accompany him for the official pre-match press conference. The choice was deliberate: Özil, once a Madrid star himself, would bring a calm gravity to the table. Francesco, the talisman of Arsenal's charge, was both their weapon and their lightning rod. Wenger wanted him present — but perhaps he also wanted him tested.
When they entered the hotel's conference room, the air was thick with anticipation. Rows of journalists filled the seats, cameras lined the back like sentries, lights flashing against the Arsenal crest that hung behind the stage. The murmur of voices quieted into a sharp silence as Wenger, Francesco, and Özil took their seats at the long table.
Wenger adjusted his jacket, composed as ever. Özil leaned back slightly, his eyes half-hidden but alert. Francesco sat upright, hands folded on the table, his jaw tense.
The moderator opened, welcoming the press and reminding them to keep questions relevant. The first few were standard.
"Arsène," asked a French journalist, "how do you approach facing a team like Real Madrid, who are chasing their eleven Champions League title?"
Wenger gave the measured smile that had become his signature in such moments. "With respect, of course. They are a great team, with a great history. But finals are not about history. They are about the present. And my players, this group — they are ready."
A Spanish reporter turned to Özil next. "Mesut, you played for Real Madrid. You know their players, their mentality. How do you feel facing your former club in such a match?"
Özil's voice was soft but steady. "Madrid was part of my journey. I learned a lot there, I had good memories. But my home now is Arsenal. My focus is Arsenal. We are here to win, nothing else."
The questions continued — tactics, fitness updates, Wenger's reflections on reaching another final. Then, like a hawk swooping down, came the moment Francesco had known would arrive.
A hand shot up from the middle row, belonging to a Spanish journalist from Marca. His tone was polite, but his words carried a pointed edge.
"Francesco," he said in accented English, "there were strong rumors in the past — very strong — that Real Madrid wanted to sign you. That you were close, some say very close, to leaving Arsenal for Madrid. Yet here you are, preparing to face them in a Champions League final. Tell us — how do you feel? To be playing against the club that almost made you… how do you say… a traitor to Arsenal?"
The room froze.
Every camera tilted toward him, lenses locking in. Özil shifted slightly in his chair. Wenger's face remained calm, but his eyes flicked toward Francesco with the smallest trace of warning.
Francesco didn't answer at once. He leaned back, his eyes narrowing, lips pressed together. Silence stretched, thick enough to make the journalists stir. Pens hovered over notebooks, fingers poised above keyboards.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, and cold.
"I hate Madrid."
The room exploded in murmurs, gasps, even a few sharp laughs of disbelief. Reporters shot glances at one another, typing furiously, some already speaking into recorders.
But Francesco wasn't finished. He leaned forward, his gaze locked on the press, as if speaking directly to every Madrid supporter in the world.
"I don't care about what was said in the past. I never wore their shirt, and I never will. Madrid is not my club. Arsenal is my club. And I will do whatever it takes — whatever it takes — to defeat them."
The words hung heavy in the air. His eyes glinted under the bright conference lights, unblinking.
Then he added, almost with a smirk that only sharpened the edge of his declaration:
"If we beat Madrid with a big score, I will personally give my teammates a gift. That is my promise. Because beating them — that will mean everything."
The room erupted.
Journalists shouted questions over one another. "What do you mean by hate?" "What kind of gift?" "Are you declaring war on Madrid?" The moderator's voice strained, calling for order. The buzz of cameras was deafening.
Wenger raised a hand, trying to restore calm, but the damage — or the impact — was done. Francesco's words had turned a normal press conference into a spectacle. The Marca journalist's grin was sharp; he knew he had gotten more than he'd hoped for.
Özil sat still, his expression unreadable, though his fingers tapped lightly on the table, betraying his nerves. Wenger finally leaned into his microphone.
"Enough," he said, his tone clipped, controlled. "Francesco has given his answer. We are here for football, not politics. Next question."
But even as other questions followed — about tactics, about injuries, about whether Koscielny would start — the energy in the room never shifted back. Everyone's minds, pens, and headlines had already moved to Francesco's declaration.
When the press conference ended and they walked off stage, Wenger placed a hand firmly on Francesco's shoulder, guiding him down the corridor. His grip was strong enough to signal displeasure, but his eyes betrayed something else: understanding.
"Francesco," he said quietly, when they were out of earshot, "you must be careful. Words carry weight. Especially here. Madrid will hear this. They will use it. You must not give them fire to burn us with."
Francesco met his gaze. His voice softened, but his conviction did not. "Boss, they already had fire. Ronaldo, Ramos, Zidane — they don't need my words to fight. But I do. I needed to say it. I needed them to know I'm not theirs, and I never will be."
Wenger studied him for a moment longer, then exhaled, releasing his shoulder. "Very well. But now, you must let your football speak louder than your anger. That is the only language Madrid will respect."
Özil, who had lingered behind, finally spoke. His tone was calm, but his words were sharp. "You've just painted a target on your back, Francesco. Ramos will hear that. Pepe too. They will come for you harder now."
Francesco's reply was a smirk, half-defiant, half-daring. "Good. Let them. The harder they come, the sweeter it will be when we win."
⸻
That evening, the fallout had already begun.
Every news channel, every sports website, every back page ran with the story. "LEE DECLARES WAR ON MADRID." "I HATE MADRID." "ARSENAL STAR PROMISES TO DESTROY LOS BLANCOS."
On Spanish TV, pundits were outraged. One former Madrid player spat into the microphone on El Chiringuito: "Who does he think he is? To hate Madrid? Madrid is history, Madrid is greatness! This boy is arrogant. Madrid will crush him."
In England, however, the reaction was split. Some pundits worried he had put unnecessary pressure on himself. Others, like Ian Wright, were gleeful. "That's what I'm talking about! He's fearless! He's telling Madrid: 'I'm not scared of you, and I'm coming for you.' I love it."
Fans lit up social media. Arsenal supporters turned Francesco's words into memes, chants, even t-shirts: "I HATE MADRID." Madrid supporters, in turn, flooded his comments with vitriol, promising he would regret his arrogance.
Leah called him that afternoon, her face glowing on his phone screen. "You really don't do things halfway, do you?" she teased, though her eyes held concern.
Francesco shrugged. "I told the truth. I'd rather they hate me for honesty than love me for lies."
She smiled softly. "Then make sure your football backs it up. Words are heavy, but goals are heavier."
The evening in Milan carried a strange electricity, as though the city itself had decided it could not wait for tomorrow. Restaurants overflowed with fans, the streets glowed in the orange warmth of late spring, and yet everywhere you looked — from bar televisions to massive screens in piazzas — there was only one subject: Arsenal versus Real Madrid.
Francesco had just returned to his hotel room after dinner with the squad when his phone buzzed. At first, he ignored it, thinking it was another journalist trying to poke at the hornet's nest his press conference had unleashed. But the vibration didn't stop. Messages were pouring in — teammates, friends back home, even people he hadn't heard from in years.
He frowned, unlocked his phone, and saw what everyone was talking about.
On Twitter, the official Barcelona account had just posted a message, cheeky and impossible to ignore. It read in Spanish first, then English:
"If Arsenal defeat Real Madrid tomorrow, we will give their entire squad a week's free vacation in Ibiza. Enjoy the island on us. Forza fútbol. 🔴⚪️"
Attached was a picture of turquoise waters, golden beaches, and a smiling emoji with sunglasses.
Francesco's jaw dropped. "No way…" he muttered, leaning closer to his screen.
Before he could even digest it, another notification arrived — this time from the official Manchester United account. Their message was even cheekier:
"Fair's fair. If Real Madrid beat Arsenal, we'll give their players a week's free vacation in Ibiza too. Don't say we don't love the game. 😉⚽️"
The room seemed to tilt with disbelief. Barcelona and Manchester United — two of the biggest clubs in the world, rivals in history and in spirit — had just turned the Champions League final into a carnival, a worldwide spectacle.
The effect was immediate and explosive.
Within minutes, hashtags flooded Twitter: #IbizaDerby, #BattleForIbiza, #MadridVsArsenal, #BarcaBackingArsenal. Millions of fans chimed in with jokes, banter, and memes. Photos of sunburnt tourists and beach cocktails suddenly became weapons in the growing frenzy.
In Spain, Madridista pundits were livid. On El Chiringuito, the host shouted into the camera:
"This is a disgrace! Barcelona humiliates themselves by siding with Arsenal! And Manchester United? A circus! This is not football, this is clownery!"
But even their outrage couldn't contain the tidal wave of attention. Clips of the rant were clipped, captioned, and shared — only feeding the madness further.
In England, Sky Sports turned it into a full segment. Jamie Carragher couldn't stop laughing. "I mean, look at this! Barca's basically saying: 'Go on lads, batter Madrid and we'll buy you piña coladas.' I've never seen anything like it in my life!"
Gary Neville, shaking his head but smiling, added: "It's brilliant banter, but imagine being in the Madrid dressing room reading that. They'll be furious. And Arsenal — they'll feel ten feet tall. They've got Barca literally paying them to beat Madrid."
At the hotel, Arsenal players were just as stunned. Francesco scrolled his phone in disbelief when Giroud knocked on his door and burst in, waving his screen.
"Mon Dieu! Have you seen this? Ibiza, my friend! Ibiza!"
Behind him came Alexis Sánchez, grinning ear to ear. "One week free, hermano! Barca is crazy!"
Soon half the squad had gathered in Francesco's room, laughing, joking, throwing out ridiculous scenarios.
"Imagine Hector on a jet ski, eh?" Ramsey chuckled.
"Giroud will never come back," Coquelin teased.
Even Mesut Özil, usually so composed, had a faint smile as he shook his head. "They are trolling Madrid so hard."
The laughter loosened the tension that had been clinging to them since their arrival in Milan. For a brief moment, the looming shadow of the final felt lighter, like a game again, like the sport they'd fallen in love with as children.
But beneath the humor was something more serious. The players all knew what this meant: the whole of Europe — maybe the whole world — was now watching, not just because of football, but because of the circus surrounding it. This final had become bigger than a match. It was theatre, war, and festival all in one.
Francesco sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the jokes but not entirely joining in. His phone kept buzzing — Leah had texted him a screenshot of Barcelona's tweet, adding: "Looks like your holiday plans are sorted, babe. Just win tomorrow."
He smiled faintly, but his chest was heavy. This wasn't just noise anymore. His words from the press conference, Barcelona's provocation, United's banter — they had turned Arsenal into something more than underdogs. They were now the chosen, the ones half of Europe wanted to see triumph, the symbol of resistance against Madrid's dominance.
That weight pressed on him, even as laughter filled the room.
He excused himself after a while, slipping out into the corridor. The buzz of voices faded behind him, replaced by the softer hum of the hotel air conditioning. He walked toward the balcony at the end of the hall, where the city lights of Milan stretched out like constellations.
He leaned on the railing, staring at the skyline, his mind spinning. He thought of Madrid's players reading those tweets, their fury sharpening like blades. He thought of Barcelona fans chanting his name, even though he wore Arsenal red. He thought of his younger self in Emilia, dreaming of moments like this, never knowing they would come tangled in politics, rivalries, and the chaos of the modern game.
His phone buzzed again — this time, a message from an unknown number. He hesitated, then opened it.
It was from a Barcelona player. Just three words: "Do it, brother."
No name, no explanation. Just that.
Francesco stared at the screen, then slipped the phone back into his pocket. The night around him felt even heavier now, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Across Europe, the reaction grew wilder by the hour. Travel agencies in Ibiza reported a sudden spike in bookings from fans who wanted to be there in case Arsenal won. Nightclubs promised special "Arsenal victory parties." Even the mayor of Ibiza tweeted: "Whichever team wins, our beaches are ready. 🏖️🍹⚽️"
By midnight, Francesco could see from his hotel window that Arsenal fans were still singing outside, their chants echoing against the Milanese streets:
"We're going to Ibiza, if we beat Madrid!"
"Francesco hates Madrid, and we do too!"
The sound was both ridiculous and beautiful, like something out of a dream.
But inside Francesco, the storm was real. Tomorrow, he knew, he would have to make good on his words — not just for Arsenal, not just for himself, but for everyone who had now hitched their hopes to his boots.
________________________________________________
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: 59
Goal: 79
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