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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.
The clock ticked toward the mid-point of the first half, and the tension in the air was thick enough to taste. Francesco wiped his forearm across his brow, stealing a glance at the scoreboard. Twenty-six minutes gone. Still goalless, but only because of two keepers who seemed determined to build statues of themselves tonight.
Then, the break.
It started innocuously — a loose pass in midfield, half a second of hesitation, just enough for Carrick to pounce. The veteran gathered the ball under his boot and lifted his head, scanning with that calm, calculating presence that had made him a United stalwart for over a decade. One simple shift of his hips opened the angle.
Arsenal's line was half a step too high.
Carrick threaded the needle. A perfectly weighted ball, slicing diagonally between Van Dijk and Koscielny, spinning into the space no defender wants to see open. And there, charging onto it like he'd been waiting his whole life, was Wayne Rooney.
The Wembley crowd roared before the shot even came.
Rooney took it in stride, his chest absorbing the ball's momentum, his legs churning with a familiar, bulldog determination. Cech rushed out, massive frame spreading wide, but the United captain had already decided. One strike, pure and clean, driven low and hard.
The ball zipped past Cech's outstretched glove and kissed the inside of the post before rippling the net.
1–0. Manchester United.
Red erupted on one half of Wembley, a thunderclap of noise. Rooney sprinted toward the corner flag, his fist punching the air, teammates flooding to him. Carrick followed at a jog, calm as ever, but with the ghost of a smile tugging his lips.
Francesco felt the blow like a punch to the ribs. His stomach twisted, but he forced his head up, his arms clapping as he barked at his teammates.
"Up! Heads up! It's nothing! We go again!"
He could see Wenger on the touchline, his face tight but not panicked, urging calm with both hands. Koscielny gave Van Dijk a sharp word, Bellerín muttered curses under his breath, and Kante simply nodded, already moving back into his holding position like a soldier unshaken.
But the sting lingered. Wembley's arch glared down, and Francesco knew the cameras would be lingering on him — the captain, the striker, the man who had to answer.
The game restarted. United, tails up now, pushed harder. Rashford buzzed, Martial danced, Rooney prowled with renewed hunger. Arsenal bent but did not break. Cech, furious at conceding, barked orders at his defenders with booming authority.
And slowly, Arsenal's composure returned.
By the thirty-second minute, they had worked themselves back into rhythm. Özil dropped deep, drawing Carrick out, while Cazorla began to spray passes wider and quicker. Walcott shifted higher, testing Rojo's pace down United's left flank.
And then it happened.
Minute thirty-five.
Bellerín stole possession from Martial near halfway and immediately released Walcott. The winger surged forward, his pace igniting the Arsenal fans like a spark to dry kindling. Rojo backpedaled desperately, but Theo had already sized him up. He feinted inside, shifted outside, then whipped a low cross into the box.
It was venomous — the kind defenders hate, skimming just above the turf, curling away from De Gea but begging for a boot.
And Alexis Sánchez was there.
Like a man possessed, he darted in front of Smalling, his body stretched, his timing immaculate. One touch, clean and ruthless, and the net bulged.
Goal. Arsenal.
1–1.
The Arsenal end of Wembley exploded. A sea of red and white erupted in song, scarves spinning, fists pumping. Alexis sprinted to the Arsenal fans, sliding on his knees, punching the badge on his chest as his teammates mobbed him.
Francesco was the first to reach him, wrapping him in a fierce embrace. "¡Vamos, hermano!" Alexis shouted, his voice hoarse with adrenaline.
"Right back in it!" Francesco roared, thumping Sánchez's back before pointing toward the centre circle. "Again! Again!"
On the touchline, Wenger clapped once, sharp and deliberate, his face betraying only the faintest flicker of relief. United's bench looked restless, Louis van Gaal rising from his seat to wave instructions.
The game had teeth now.
The final ten minutes of the half were a blur of tackles, surges, near-misses, and saves that defied belief.
In the thirty-ninth, Martial cut inside Monreal and curled one toward the far corner — Cech, sprawling like a panther, tipped it just wide.
In the forty-second, Özil unlocked United's line with a lofted pass that dropped perfectly for Francesco, who volleyed on the turn — De Gea, impossibly, clawed it out of the top corner.
In the forty-fourth, Rooney do one two with Rashford then nearly doubled his tally with a thunderous strike from twenty yards, only for Van Dijk to block it with his chest, the impact leaving him grimacing but unbowed.
Every challenge was cheered, every clearance applauded, every near-miss greeted with groans and gasps that rippled across the stadium.
By the time the referee's whistle blew for halftime, Wembley was shaking under the weight of tension.
Arsenal 1, Manchester United 1.
The players trudged toward the tunnel, shirts drenched, lungs burning. Francesco clapped his hands as he walked, urging the lads to keep their focus. But inside, his mind was racing. He could still feel the sting of United's opener, still taste the bitterness of falling behind. Yet Alexis had answered.
The tunnel swallowed them again, sweat dripping from brows, boots scuffing against the concrete. Francesco pulled at his collar as he walked, sucking in air like a man who'd just surfaced from deep water. His body hummed with adrenaline, his legs warm, but his mind was sharper than ever. This wasn't just another game. This was the final. This was the thin red line between history and heartbreak.
The Arsenal dressing room buzzed with a hundred small sounds. Bellerín slammed his water bottle down and muttered in Spanish. Cazorla sat with his head tipped back, eyes closed, breathing deep through his nose as if trying to slow the world down. Van Dijk pressed a towel against his chest where Rooney's shot had cannoned off him, his face stoic.
Walcott paced. Sánchez leaned against the wall, sweat rolling down his temples, his eyes still burning with the fire of his equaliser. Özil sat quiet, head bowed, laces undone, untying and retying his boots as though precision there would mean precision everywhere.
Wenger stood in the middle of it all. Calm. Always calm. His thin frame didn't impose itself physically, but when he raised his voice, the room silenced like schoolboys before their headmaster.
"Sit," he said, his French cadence clipped but steady.
They did. Some on benches, some on stools, some cross-legged on the floor. All eyes turned to him.
"This is what I ask," Wenger began, his voice quiet at first, so that the players leaned in, ears straining. "Composure. Always composure. The first half showed us everything — their strength, our strength, the mistakes, the moments of brilliance. We cannot change what has happened. But we can shape what will come."
He pointed to the tactics board, still marked from before kickoff. "Manchester United play narrow. Carrick will always try to find Rooney, Mata, Martial, Rashford. They want to pull you out of your positions. We must not give them space. Stay compact when we defend."
Then, he turned, pacing slowly in front of them, his eyes sharp now. "But when we attack — ah, when we attack — we must not hesitate. You saw it. They cannot handle our pace. Not Rojo. Not Blind. Not Smalling. And not Valencia. If we play quick, if we move the ball fast, they will break. It is only a matter of time."
He stopped and looked around the room, making eye contact with each man.
"And remember the stakes," Wenger said, his voice tightening, weight dropping into every word. "You win this game, you lift the FA Cup. But it is more than a trophy. You win this game, and we keep the dream of the treble alive. Premier League. Champions League. FA Cup. You know what that would mean — not only for you, but for this club, for the history, for every boy and girl who wear our colours. Keep your heads. Play your football. And the glory will follow."
Silence. Then Sánchez punched the air and shouted, "¡Vamos!"
Theo clapped his hands together, sparks in his eyes. Van Dijk muttered to Koscielny in Dutch-accented French about shutting the door at the back. Francesco sat forward, elbows on knees, the armband tight around his arm. He felt every syllable Wenger had spoken burning through him. The treble. He wanted it. They all wanted it. And they would have to tear it from United's grasp tonight.
The whistle for the second half loomed. Boots were retied, jerseys tugged down, water swallowed in greedy gulps. Cazorla stretched his calves. Özil finally lifted his head, his eyes calm but glittering. Kante cracked his knuckles like a man ready to go to war.
Wenger clapped once. "Together," he said. "Go."
The tunnel again. The grass again. The roar of Wembley again. The second half.
And from the first whistle, Arsenal surged forward like a dam bursting.
It began with Sánchez. Barely a minute into the half, he collected a pass from Özil on the left, cut inside, and unleashed a shot that dipped nastily toward the bottom corner. De Gea dived, fingertips brushing it away for a corner.
The Arsenal fans roared, a wall of noise pushing their team on.
From the corner, Cazorla swung it deep. Van Dijk rose again, his forehead meeting the ball like a hammer, but Rojo threw himself into its path, blocking it with his shoulder before hoofing clear.
United barely had time to breathe.
Bellerín picked it up near halfway and drove forward, exchanging a quick one-two with Walcott before slinging in a cross. Francesco rose above Smalling, muscles straining, his header arrowing toward the net — De Gea again, lightning reflexes, pushing it over the bar.
The United keeper was already earning his sainthood.
And Arsenal came again.
In the fifty-first minute, Özil slipped a pass between Blind and Rojo, sending Walcott streaking into the box. He lashed a shot toward the near post — De Gea smothered it, the ball bobbling loose. Sánchez pounced, but Valencia came sliding across, a desperate block saving the day.
The pressure was relentless, suffocating. Rojo, Blind, Smalling, and Valencia were sprinting, sliding, throwing themselves into tackles, their shirts clinging to their backs with sweat. Carrick barked instructions, his arms flailing, but even he could barely slow the tide.
In the fifty-fifth, Francesco nearly broke through. Özil floated a ball over the top, and Francesco timed his run to perfection, his chest cushioning it as he drove into the box. Smalling lunged, but Francesco shifted right, blasting a shot toward the far post. The stadium held its breath — and De Gea, impossibly, stuck out a boot, deflecting it just wide.
Francesco slapped the turf in frustration before springing back up. "Next one!" he shouted, his face red with determination.
By the hour mark, United's backline was in survival mode. Rojo had grass stains down his side from endless slides. Blind was tugging at Walcott's shirt every chance he got, his face flushed with exhaustion. Smalling barked, gestured, organised, but even he looked stretched thin. And Valencia — normally a marauder forward — was pinned back, sweating buckets as he tracked Sánchez's every feint and dart.
De Gea? He was everywhere. Catching crosses, punching corners, diving left, springing right. His gloves must have been stinging.
Arsenal's fans sensed blood. Their chants grew louder, echoing through the arch. Every time Özil picked up the ball, you could hear 30,000 voices lean forward as one. Every time Francesco turned his man, you could feel the tension coil.
Fifty-eighth minute: Cazorla struck a piledriver from distance. De Gea palmed it away.
Sixtieth: Walcott cut in, curled one. De Gea tipped it over.
Sixty-second: Francesco latched onto a through-ball and smashed it low — De Gea again, spreading wide, denying what looked certain.
The Arsenal captain stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, staring at the Spaniard in disbelief. De Gea just pointed to his defenders, urging them up, trying to catch his breath.
But the bombardment didn't stop.
Fifteen minutes into the half, it was Arsenal who had United by the throat, United's defence who clung on like men in a storm, and De Gea who stood like a wall refusing to crack.
The tide of red shirts pressing forward had United gasping for air, their back line fraying at the seams, De Gea keeping them alive on a thread. And then came the moment that everyone in Wembley felt — that unmistakable pulse when a manager knows he cannot wait any longer.
Minute sixty-five.
Louis van Gaal rose stiffly from his bench, his jaw set, movements mechanical but urgent. He barked toward the fourth official, his hand chopping the air with three fingers raised. United's board went up almost instantly.
Three numbers. Three changes.
The United fans erupted with a mix of surprise and hope, their voices carrying across the stadium. Rojo, Rashford, Mata — all trudged toward the touchline, sweat dripping, chests heaving. Rashford looked frustrated, slapping Valencia's hand as he went off. Mata shook his head slightly, muttering under his breath, his playmaker's influence dulled tonight by the sheer chaos Arsenal had imposed. Rojo? He barely had the energy to react, his legs heavy from an hour of firefighting against Walcott's endless sprints.
On came Darmian, Ashley Young, and Jesse Lingard. Fresh legs, fresh lungs, different problems for Arsenal to solve. Van Gaal waved his arms like a conductor, repositioning his chess pieces — Darmian tucked into defence, Young sliding wide to stretch the pitch, Lingard buzzing forward with hungry eyes.
Wenger, standing arms folded in his usual statuesque stance, barely flinched. But his assistant whispered in his ear, and after a brief nod, the Frenchman moved.
"Téo," Wenger called, his voice rising above the crowd. Walcott glanced back, already knowing. His race was run. He jogged toward the sideline, sweat streaking his face, fans applauding his effort.
Jack Wilshere stripped off his bib, tugged his shirt down, and jogged on, fists clenched, jaw locked. He slapped Theo's hand, a fiery glint in his eye. This was his stage now. The boy who had grown up Arsenal, blood-red through and through, back from injury, back in the fight. The fans roared his name, "WILSHERE! WILSHERE!"
Francesco clapped his hands. "Jack, with me! Push them back, brother!"
The tempo didn't dip. If anything, it sharpened.
United's subs tried to impose themselves quickly. Lingard darted down the right, linking with Valencia to try to pin Monreal. Ashley Young whipped in an early cross that Cech claimed bravely, rising through bodies. But Arsenal snapped back into rhythm, Özil dropping deep to dictate, Wilshere biting into midfield duels, Sánchez snarling with every touch.
Then came the seventy-second minute. The moment Arsenal had been chasing all night.
It began innocently enough — a spell of possession, the ball zipping between red shirts with patience, probing, pulling United side to side. Özil rolled it to Bellerín, who carried it forward, then cut back inside to Cazorla.
Santi paused. Just for a second. He had Blind charging toward him, Carrick stepping out, but his eyes — his magician's eyes — saw something else. Francesco, peeling off Smalling's shoulder, ready to burst into that sliver of daylight at the edge of the box.
One touch, weight perfect. A diagonal pass that seemed almost casual, like a painter flicking the final stroke across a canvas.
Francesco read it instantly. He surged forward, chest puffed, legs driving. The ball kissed the turf once, twice — then his right boot met it with a thunderclap.
The strike was venom. Low, skimming, bending just enough to sneak past De Gea's despairing dive.
For a heartbeat, Wembley froze. Then the net rippled.
2–1. Arsenal.
The red and white half of Wembley exploded into delirium. Flags whipped, scarves twirled, men and women leapt into each other's arms. The roar was deafening, a living, breathing wall of sound that shook the arch above.
Francesco wheeled away, arms wide, face lit by sheer, unfiltered joy. He sprinted toward the corner, sliding on his knees, fists hammering the air. Sánchez caught him first, leaping on his back. Özil followed, tapping his temple as if to say: We saw it. We knew it.
Santi jogged over, smiling, raising a single finger as though to say: I told you. One pass, one goal.
Wenger didn't leap. He didn't run. He simply clenched his fists tight, his lips pressed together. But his eyes — behind those glasses — gleamed.
On the United bench, Van Gaal sat rigid, his jaw tightening, his notepad clutched but unused. His gamble hadn't worked.
Back on the pitch, Francesco pulled his teammates into a huddle before United could restart. His voice carried above the chaos:
"Now we stay sharp! Don't let them back in! This is ours, lads — ours to finish!"
The game resumed, United desperate now. They threw men forward, but Arsenal held firm. Kante was everywhere — intercepting, tackling, covering. Van Dijk thundered into Rooney, winning a header that drew huge applause. Bellerín chased down Young and nicked the ball off his boots with a smirk.
Then came Wenger's next move. Minute seventy-eight.
Santi Cazorla, maestro of the midfield, jogged toward the sideline. The fans stood and applauded, his name ringing out. In his place, the captain, the veteran, the heartbeat of Arsenal's dressing room: Mikel Arteta.
As Arteta jogged on, Francesco unstrapped the armband, the fabric damp with his sweat. He gripped it for a moment, then turned, locking eyes with the Spaniard.
He slid it onto Arteta's arm himself, patting it twice. "Capitán," Francesco said, his voice low but fierce.
Arteta nodded, his expression solemn. "Let's finish it."
And the team adjusted instantly — Arteta anchoring, calming, recycling possession, his presence giving Arsenal a steady heartbeat as the clock ticked.
United pushed harder. Lingard wriggled free once, firing just over the bar. Rooney smashed a shot from distance that Cech tipped wide. Smalling stormed forward, desperate, but Koscielny stood his ground, every muscle braced.
Eighty-five minutes. Wenger moved again.
Koscielny, chest heaving, thigh tight from a collision, raised his hand. Wenger nodded. The board went up: Koscielny off, Per Mertesacker on.
The German giant jogged in, calm as stone, slotting alongside Van Dijk. He clapped the Dutchman's shoulder. "Five more minutes. Nothing gets through."
Francesco, armband gone but leadership undimmed, shouted across the line: "Talk to each other! No gaps! Hold strong!"
And Arsenal did.
United poured forward, desperate, their fans bellowing. Crosses rained in, corners whipped at Cech, bodies crashing in the box. But Mertesacker rose, head meeting everything. Van Dijk thundered clearances. Arteta slowed the game, taking fouls, drawing the sting.
Francesco chased lost causes, pressing De Gea, forcing hurried clearances, every sprint earning roars of approval from the Arsenal end.
Then — finally — the whistle.
The referee's arm went up. His whistle shrieked. It was over.
Arsenal 2, Manchester United 1. Arsenal — FA Cup winners. Again.
The bench emptied in a heartbeat. Every unused player, every coach, every physio stormed the pitch, sprinting toward the players. The red wall of fans behind them was already in rapture, scarves flying, songs erupting into the London night.
Francesco dropped to his knees for a moment, hands over his face, the sheer weight of it crashing through him. Then Sánchez hauled him up, hugging him tight, both men laughing, shouting, barely able to hear themselves over the roar.
Wilshere was punching the air, screaming toward the fans. Özil lifted both arms, serene but glowing. Bellerín collapsed to the turf, then sprang up again, sprinting toward the supporters.
Wenger, the elder statesman, allowed himself a small smile, clapping gently as his players mobbed each other. For him, it was vindication, validation, another page in history.
The Arsenal end of Wembley sang louder, louder, "Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!" — their voices stretching into the night sky. The FA Cup was theirs, and their dream of the treble lived on.
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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: 57
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