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For now, there was warmth, shared effort, and the quiet certainty that something meaningful had been done and that was enough.
The night eventually loosened its grip.
Not all at once. It never did. It faded in layers with first the sharpest edges of adrenaline, then the noise, then the urgency until all that remained was memory and the quiet weight of what had been earned.
Days passed.
Recovery days, gym sessions, video analysis, light jogs under grey London skies. Francesco felt the match against Madrid still living in his legs, a dull ache that flared during stretches and eased once he started moving. He welcomed it. Pain like that was honest. It reminded him he was alive inside the season, not just passing through it.
Three days after the first leg, Arsenal were back on the road.
Riverside Stadium.
Middlesbrough away.
Not glamorous. Not European. But necessary.
The kind of match that champions didn't romanticize; but respected.
The bus ride north was quieter than usual. Some players had headphones in, others stared out the windows as the city slowly gave way to motorways and open stretches of road. Francesco sat halfway down the bus, hood up, eyes forward, replaying small details from training the day before. Pressing triggers. Passing lanes. The timing of runs.
Madrid was already in the back of everyone's minds.
That was exactly why this match mattered.
On the pitch, Arsenal were ruthless in their simplicity.
Alexis opened the scoring midway through the first half, darting in behind the defense and finishing low at the near post, his celebration sharp and unapologetic. Özil followed in the second half, ghosting into space at the edge of the box and guiding the ball home with effortless precision.
Francesco made it three.
Late.
A clean move from back to front. Kanté snapped into a challenge, won the ball, slid it forward to Xhaka, who didn't hesitate. One touch. Then another. The pass split the defense, weighted perfectly.
Francesco timed his run, stayed onside by inches, opened his body, and finished first time.
No theatrics.
Just certainty.
3–0.
Job done.
Back in the dressing room, there was satisfaction, but restraint. No music turned all the way up. No prolonged celebrations. Wenger said little, which in itself said everything.
"Well handled," he told them. "Now we turn the page."
The page turned quickly.
Madrid arrived before anyone was ready for it to slow down.
April 18, 2017.
The morning came sharp and clear, sunlight cutting through the curtains of the team hotel in Madrid. Francesco woke before his alarm, eyes opening to unfamiliar light, the quiet hum of a city that carried football in its bones.
He lay still for a moment.
Breathing.
Listening.
Today.
Breakfast was calm. Too calm, some might have said. Players sat in small groups, conversation low and unforced. Plates were filled with routine precision with eggs, fruit, toast, protein shakes. Phones buzzed with messages from home, from friends, from people who had been counting down to this night since the draw was made.
Francesco ate slowly.
Alexis sat across from him, scrolling, shaking his head at something on his screen.
"Everyone thinks they already won," Alexis muttered.
Francesco glanced up. "Let them."
The bus ride to the Santiago Bernabéu came later that evening.
Dusk bled into night as they pulled away from the hotel, police escort clearing the streets ahead. Madrid pressed in from both sides of the windows from grand buildings, narrow streets, fans already gathering, scarves held high, white shirts everywhere.
The Bernabéu appeared suddenly.
Massive.
Unavoidable.
Even from a distance, it felt like a living thing, lit up against the night sky, waiting.
The bus slowed.
The noise hit first.
Not chaotic.
Focused.
A low roar layered with whistles, chants, the rhythmic pounding of expectation. Cameras flashed as the bus pulled in, fans pressing close, shouting names with some Arsenal, but mostly Madrid.
Francesco stood as the bus stopped.
The doors opened.
Cool night air rushed in.
One by one, they stepped out.
Flashes. Shouts. The sharp click of shutters.
Francesco's boots hit the ground, solid and final. He adjusted his jacket, eyes lifting instinctively to the stadium façade towering above them.
This was where legends were tested.
Inside, the corridors were wide, polished, echoing with footsteps and distant voices. Arsenal were guided toward their dressing room, passing Real Madrid staff, security, UEFA officials moving with practiced efficiency.
The dressing room itself was immaculate.
White tiles. Clean lines. Arsenal shirts already hung in perfect order, red and white against the neutral walls. Francesco's hung in the center.
Number 9.
Captain's armband folded neatly on the bench beneath it.
He paused there for half a second.
Then he turned away.
Training kits on first.
They changed quickly, efficiently. No wasted motion. No unnecessary words. Boots laced. Tape applied. Final sips of water.
Then out to the pitch.
The Bernabéu opened up around them like a cathedral.
The grass looked flawless. Too perfect. Bright under the floodlights, trimmed so evenly it almost looked unreal. The stands were filling fast, waves of white flowing into every tier.
The noise swelled as Arsenal stepped onto the pitch.
Not hostility.
Challenge.
Warm-up was sharp.
Passing drills. Short sprints. Shooting patterns.
Francesco felt good.
Light.
Every touch felt clean. The ball moved exactly where he wanted it to. When he struck it, it stayed down, skidding true across the surface. He caught Kanté's eye at one point that both nodded, a silent confirmation.
This was real now.
After twenty minutes, they were called back in.
The walk back to the dressing room felt heavier somehow. Not with doubt, but with focus. The moment before something decisive always did.
They changed into match kits in near silence.
Red shirts.
White sleeves.
Socks pulled high.
Francesco slipped the captain's armband on last, adjusting it until it sat just right. The fabric felt warm against his skin.
Wenger stood at the front.
Calm.
Still.
When everyone was seated, he began.
"No one here should be surprised by what is waiting for us outside," he said evenly. "They will start fast. They always do. They believe in moments. We must believe in structure."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the tactics board.
"We play 4-3-3."
No murmurs. No surprise.
"Petr," he nodded toward Čech. "You lead from the back."
Then the back line.
"Nacho. Virgil. Laurent. Hector."
Each name landed solidly.
"N'Golo," Wenger continued. "You protect the space. You break their rhythm."
Kanté nodded once.
"Mesut. Granit. You control the tempo. Do not rush it. Make them chase."
Özil leaned back slightly, eyes focused. Xhaka sat forward, elbows on knees.
"Alexis. Theo," Wenger said. "Width. Directness. When we go, we go together."
Then his gaze settled on Francesco.
"And Francesco," he said. "You lead."
Nothing else needed to be added.
The bench was named quickly after.
"Macey. Per. Holding. Ramsey. Santi. Serge. Olivier."
Experience. Youth. Options.
Wenger finished the briefing the same way he always did before nights like this.
"Be brave," he said. "Be intelligent. And remember you earned the right to be here."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Purposeful.
Then it was time.
They formed up in the tunnel, Arsenal on one side, Real Madrid on the other. The air was thick with anticipation, the hum of the stadium vibrating through the concrete beneath their boots.
Francesco stood at the front.
Beside him, Sergio Ramos.
Ramos glanced sideways, eyes sharp, assessing.
Francesco met his gaze briefly.
No words.
None were needed.
The referee stepped forward, checked his watch, then nodded.
The signal was given.
They walked.
Out of the tunnel.
Into the night.
The stadium exploded.
Lights blazed down, brighter than anywhere else in football. The roar was immediate, overwhelming, pressing in from every angle. White flags waved. Scarves were lifted. The Champions League anthem began to swell.
They lined up beside the referees.
The anthem played.
Francesco stood tall, eyes forward, heart steady. He felt the armband tighten slightly as his arm flexed, the weight of responsibility settling into something familiar.
When the anthem ended, they shook hands with the referees first, then Madrid players.
Ramos's grip was firm.
"Good luck," he said.
Francesco nodded. "You too."
They took their places for the team photo, Arsenal crouched and standing in formation, flashes popping endlessly.
Then the captains were called forward.
Francesco and Ramos walked to the center circle, the referee waiting between them.
The coin glinted under the lights.
Ramos called it.
Chose right.
Madrid got the kick-off.
Francesco turned, jogging back toward his half, eyes scanning his teammates as they settled into position.
Two-goal advantage.
Ninety minutes.
The Bernabéu.
Everything was ready.
And as he took his place, knees bending slightly, focus narrowing, Francesco felt it clearly with no fear and no hesitation.
The whistle cut clean through the noise.
Sharp. Final.
And just like that, the Champions League quarter-final second leg was alive.
The ball was rolled back into motion at the center circle, white shirts immediately surging forward as if pulled by the same invisible thread. Real Madrid didn't wait. They never did. The Bernabéu demanded urgency, demanded belief, demanded that the night bend in their favor as early as possible.
Zinedine Zidane had set them up to attack from the first breath.
4-3-1-2.
Narrow. Aggressive. Relentless.
Isco floated behind the front two like a shadow that never quite stood still, constantly drifting into pockets, always asking questions. Ahead of him, Karim Benzema and Cristiano Ronaldo split, peeled wide, dropped deep, surged forward with anything to disorganize, anything to create uncertainty.
Bale was absent, injured, but there was no sense of loss in the way Madrid moved. They didn't mourn. They adapted.
Arsenal felt it immediately.
From the first press, the first surge of white shirts, the first roar that followed every Madrid touch, it was clear this wouldn't be a night of patience for the home side. They wanted chaos. They wanted moments. They wanted to turn ninety minutes into a storm.
Francesco dropped slightly as Madrid kicked off, eyes flicking across the pitch, reading movement, measuring distance. He could feel the vibration of the crowd through the turf, the sound pressing into his chest with every step.
Kroos and Modrić took control early.
One touch. Two. Always moving the ball just before Arsenal could settle. Casemiro anchored behind them, snapping into tackles, stepping into passing lanes, his presence felt even when he wasn't directly involved.
Özil, Kanté, and Xhaka went to work immediately.
Kanté was everywhere. He closed, recovered, intercepted, his body moving almost independently of thought. Xhaka held his ground, directing traffic, barking instructions, refusing to let Madrid dictate every rhythm. Özil drifted between lines, trying to find space where none seemed to exist, his head always turning, searching.
Out wide, Alexis and Walcott stayed high when they could, pinning Marcelo and Carvajal back just enough to prevent them from fully committing forward. It was a delicate balance as one wrong step, one mistimed run, and Madrid would flood the space behind them.
At the back, Arsenal held their line.
Monreal tucked in, cautious. Bellerín stayed alert, ready to sprint at the first hint of danger. Van Dijk and Koscielny communicated constantly, arms pointing, voices cutting through the noise.
And behind them all stood Petr Čech.
Still.
Watching.
The first warning came early.
A sharp exchange between Modrić and Isco split Arsenal's midfield for half a second. Benzema dropped deep, drew Koscielny with him, then flicked the ball wide to Ronaldo, who had peeled off Van Dijk's shoulder.
The cross came fast.
Low.
Čech reacted instantly, diving forward, smothering the ball before Benzema could get a foot to it. The crowd groaned in unison, frustration mixing with belief.
It wouldn't be the last time.
Madrid kept coming.
Wave after wave.
Shots blocked. Crosses cleared. Passes cut out at the last second. Arsenal didn't panic, but they felt it with the constant pressure, the way the game seemed to be played entirely in their half for long stretches.
Francesco tracked back when needed, helping Kanté close down Casemiro, forcing hurried passes. When Arsenal did win the ball, he pushed forward immediately, dragging Ramos with him, trying to stretch the pitch, trying to buy his team a breath.
At the twelve-minute mark, the pressure finally told.
It began innocently enough.
Casemiro stepped in front of Özil, won the ball cleanly, and didn't hesitate. He surged forward, head up, options everywhere. Modrić peeled right, Benzema dropped, Ronaldo ghosted into space just outside the box.
Casemiro chose instinct over caution.
He slid the ball into Ronaldo's path, perfectly weighted.
Ronaldo took one touch to set himself.
The second was decisive.
The shot was low, driven, skidding across the grass with venom. Čech went full stretch, fingertips brushing leather, but it wasn't enough. The ball kissed the inside of the post and buried itself in the net.
For a fraction of a second, there was silence.
Then the Bernabéu erupted.
White shirts sprinted toward the corner flag, Ronaldo leaping, fists clenched, face set in fierce certainty. The noise was deafening now, the kind that rattled the ribs and made the air itself feel thick.
1–0.
Aggregate: 4–3.
Francesco stood near the center circle, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling.
He didn't look at the scoreboard.
He looked at his teammates.
Kanté clapped his hands sharply, shouting something inaudible over the roar. Xhaka pointed forward, urging calm. Van Dijk raised an arm, steadying the line.
This was expected.
This was Madrid.
The restart came quickly.
Arsenal didn't rush it.
They circulated the ball, moving it side to side, forcing Madrid to retreat just a little, to reset their shape. Özil began to find pockets now, drifting wide, then inside, dragging markers with him.
Francesco stayed central, body angled, constantly checking his shoulder. Ramos stayed tight, physical, a presence at his back every time the ball came near. There was no conversation, just contact with shoulders brushing, boots scraping, silent challenges issued and accepted.
Gradually, Arsenal began to breathe.
A long spell of possession quieted the crowd slightly. Not silenced, but tempered. Walcott found space on the right, sprinting onto a diagonal pass from Xhaka, forcing Marcelo to track back hard. Alexis pressed Carvajal relentlessly, snapping at his heels, winning a throw-in high up the pitch.
At twenty-seven minutes, Arsenal found their moment.
It started deep.
Van Dijk stepped out of the back line with confidence, carrying the ball past the halfway line before releasing it to Kanté. One touch. Then another. Kanté drew Modrić toward him, then slipped the ball into Özil's feet.
Özil turned.
Just for a second, the world slowed.
Ramos hesitated, step out or hold? Casemiro shifted left. Marcelo crept forward, caught between instincts.
That hesitation was all Francesco needed.
He peeled off Ramos's shoulder, curved his run just enough to stay onside, eyes locked on Özil. The pass came through the narrowest channel imaginable, threaded between white shirts with surgical precision.
Francesco took it in stride.
One touch to open his body.
The second to finish.
Low. Across Navas. Into the far corner.
The net rippled.
Silence slammed into the Bernabéu like a wall.
Then, scattered whistles.
1–1.
Aggregate: 5–3.
Francesco didn't celebrate wildly.
He turned, clenched his fist once, hard, then jogged back toward the halfway line, eyes calm, heart steady. Alexis reached him first, slapping his back, shouting something fierce and joyful in his ear. Özil smiled softly, already retreating into position as if the moment were simply another step in a longer journey.
Madrid looked stunned.
Not broken, but checked.
The crowd buzzed, restless now, unsure whether to roar or to wait.
The game opened up.
Madrid pushed harder, urgency creeping into their movements. Crosses came earlier. Shots were taken from tighter angles. Benzema nearly found space inside the box, only for Koscielny to throw himself in front of the effort, blocking it with his thigh.
Arsenal responded in kind.
Francesco dropped deeper at times, linking play, drawing fouls, allowing Walcott and Alexis to run beyond him. Xhaka struck from distance once, the ball swerving just wide, forcing Navas into a full stretch that he might not have needed but took it anyway.
At thirty-nine minutes, Arsenal struck again.
And this time, it was devastating.
Alexis started it.
He stole the ball from Carvajal near the touchline, pure will and aggression, then surged forward. Marcelo stepped across to cover, but Alexis cut inside sharply, leaving him flat-footed.
Francesco saw it instantly.
He moved.
Not a sprint, just enough. A subtle drift between Ramos and Fernández, pulling them apart by inches. Alexis glanced up, eyes flashing, and released the pass without breaking stride.
The ball slid into space.
Francesco met it first time.
No adjustment. No hesitation.
The shot was fierce, rising just enough to beat Navas at his near post, snapping the net back with a sound that cut through the stadium.
2–1 Arsenal.
Francesco had his brace.
Aggregate: 6–3.
For a moment, the Bernabéu didn't know how to react.
Some fans whistled loudly. Others stood in stunned silence. A few clapped, begrudging, acknowledging the quality of what they'd just witnessed.
Francesco jogged back again, expression unchanged. Inside, something burned that controlled, focused, relentless.
This wasn't done.
Madrid threw everything forward before halftime.
They had to.
Isco began to drift wider, trying to overload the flanks. Kroos stepped higher, delivering early balls into the box. Ronaldo took up more central positions, demanding the ball at every opportunity.
Arsenal bent, but didn't break.
Čech made a crucial save just before the break, tipping a Ronaldo header over the bar with a reflex that drew gasps from both sets of supporters. Van Dijk and Koscielny won aerial duel after aerial duel, bodies colliding, boots tangling, no ground conceded.
When the referee finally blew for halftime, it felt like a release.
Players walked off under a mixed chorus with boos from the home crowd, cheers from the pocket of traveling Arsenal supporters tucked high into the stands, their voices raw but proud.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was intense but controlled.
No music.
Just breathing.
Sweat.
Focus.
Players dropped onto benches, towels draped over shoulders, water bottles passed around. Francesco sat in the center, head down for a moment, hands resting on his knees, feeling the pulse of the match still thudding through him.
Wenger waited until everyone had settled.
Then he spoke.
"They will come again," he said calmly. "Harder. Faster. With emotion."
He let that sink in.
"We do not chase the game. We let it come to us. When the moment is there, we take it. Together."
He looked at Francesco.
"You are doing exactly what we need."
Francesco nodded once.
The second half began without ceremony.
No easing back in. No feeling out the tempo.
Just pressure.
Immediate. Relentless. Suffocating.
Real Madrid came out of the tunnel as if the fifteen minutes had never existed, as if Zidane had lit a fuse in that dressing room and sent them back onto the pitch with one command echoing in their heads: now.
The Bernabéu responded instantly.
The volume jumped, not gradually, but all at once with tens of thousands rising to their feet, arms lifted, voices converging into a single demand. White shirts pressed higher. Fullbacks pushed on. Kroos and Modrić played ten yards further up the pitch, squeezing Arsenal into a smaller, more dangerous space.
Arsenal felt it.
Even before the first real passage of play, there was a subtle shift with less time on the ball, fewer easy options, passes that had to be sharper, quicker, cleaner. The margin for error shrank to almost nothing.
Francesco clapped his hands once, loudly, as Madrid kicked off again.
"Together," he shouted, though he wasn't sure who heard it over the noise. Maybe it didn't matter. The intention was there.
Madrid poured forward.
Isco drifted left, then right, dragging markers. Casemiro stepped into Arsenal's half and stayed there, pinning Kanté deeper than he'd been all night. Marcelo pushed on relentlessly, overlapping again and again, forcing Walcott to track back further than he wanted.
Arsenal were suddenly chasing.
Not panicking, but reacting.
And that difference mattered.
At forty-seven minutes, Kroos whipped in an early cross that Ronaldo met with a towering header. Čech clawed it away at full stretch, landing hard, the save drawing a roar that felt like approval rather than disappointment.
At forty-eight, Modrić slipped a ball through for Benzema, who shot first time, only for Van Dijk to slide across and block it with his shin. The deflection looped up, hung in the air for a breathless moment, before dropping safely into Čech's gloves.
The pressure didn't stop.
Then, at forty-nine minutes, it cracked.
It happened just outside the box.
Ronaldo collected the ball centrally, twenty-five yards out, back to goal. He rolled Van Dijk once, quick and sharp, shifting the ball onto his right foot. Van Dijk reacted instinctively too instinctively.
A step late.
A hand out.
A clash of legs.
Ronaldo went down.
The whistle blew immediately.
The Bernabéu exploded.
Francesco turned, heart sinking just enough to notice it, watching Ronaldo rise slowly, brushing grass from his shorts, already knowing what was coming. Van Dijk stood over him for a moment, hands on hips, frustration written plainly across his face. He didn't argue. He knew.
Twenty-five yards.
Central.
Perfect.
Ronaldo placed the ball himself.
He took his time.
Backed away.
Stood still.
The stadium quieted in that strange, reverent way it always did when he stood over a free kick like this. Phones rose. Arms froze mid-gesture. Even Arsenal players felt it with the collective intake of breath, the shared sense that something dangerous was about to happen.
Francesco stood on the edge of the wall, jaw tight, eyes locked on the ball.
The referee blew his whistle.
Ronaldo ran up.
Struck it.
The ball rose violently, knuckling, dipping, swerving mid-flight like it had a mind of its own. Čech shifted left, then right, wrong-footed for half a second that was all it took.
The ball dipped late.
Too late.
It smashed into the top corner.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then the Bernabéu detonated.
2–2.
Aggregate: 6–4.
Ronaldo sprinted toward the corner, fists clenched, veins standing out in his neck, his face a mask of pure, ferocious belief. Teammates piled onto him, white shirts everywhere, the noise almost physical now, a wall of sound crashing down onto the pitch.
Francesco exhaled slowly.
Once.
Twice.
He turned back toward his half, clapping his hands, forcing calm into his body even as the momentum tilted sharply against them.
There was still a cushion.
Still control.
But it was thinning.
Madrid sensed it.
They attacked with renewed hunger, every touch played with conviction, every run made with intent. Arsenal began to look just a fraction rushed now, clearances going a little longer, passes traveling a little faster than needed.
At fifty-five minutes, Ronaldo nearly struck again as this time from open play, bursting onto a through ball from Modrić, only for Čech to rush out bravely and smother at his feet, taking a knee to the ribs in the process.
Čech stayed down for a moment.
Long enough to slow the game.
Long enough for Arsenal to regroup.
But Madrid didn't lose their edge.
At fifty-eight minutes, it happened again.
This time, it was devastating.
Benzema dropped deep, drawing Koscielny with him, then spun away, slipping the ball wide to Marcelo, who had acres of space down the left. The cross came early, whipped hard toward the near post.
Ronaldo was already there.
He'd beaten Van Dijk to the space by half a step, darting across the defender's line. The finish was instinctive with a sharp, stabbing touch that redirected the ball past Čech before anyone could react.
The net bulged.
Ronaldo wheeled away.
And then he did it.
He leapt.
Turned.
Landed.
"Siuuuuu!"
The entire stadium answered him.
"Siuuuuu!"
Thousands of voices, perfectly timed, shaking the concrete beneath their feet.
3–2 Real Madrid.
Aggregate: 6–5.
Suddenly, the tie was alive in a way it hadn't been moments earlier.
Francesco stood near the center circle, hands resting briefly on his knees, eyes narrowed. Around him, Arsenal players looked at one another that no panic, but urgency now unmistakable.
This was the moment Madrid lived for.
Zidane stood on the touchline, arms folded, expression calm but eyes burning. He clapped once, sharp, commanding his players to keep going, to keep pressing, to smell blood.
Arsenal needed a reset.
Wenger knew it.
At sixty-six minutes, the board went up.
Theo Walcott's number.
Mesut Özil's.
Off.
On came Serge Gnabry and Santi Cazorla.
The changes were immediate in intention if not yet in effect.
Gnabry took up the right side, fresh legs, fearless, ready to run directly at Marcelo. Cazorla dropped into midfield alongside Xhaka and Kanté, adding control, composure, and a left foot capable of slowing the storm just enough.
Madrid responded instantly.
Zidane gestured toward his bench.
Benzema off.
Isco off.
On came Marco Asensio and Lucas Vázquez.
Pace.
Width.
Directness.
Madrid were going for it.
Asensio drifted into the half-spaces, testing Monreal and Koscielny with clever movement. Vázquez hugged the right touchline, stretching Arsenal's shape, forcing Bellerín to choose between stepping out or holding the line.
The match became stretched.
Chaotic.
Moments began to define everything.
At sixty-eight minutes, Arsenal nearly restored their cushion.
Cazorla slipped a pass through midfield, splitting Kroos and Casemiro, finding Francesco's feet just outside the box. He turned sharply, rolled Ramos, and unleashed a shot that skimmed the outside of the post, Navas watching helplessly as it slid wide.
Francesco clenched his jaw, hands briefly on his head.
So close.
Madrid answered with fury.
Asensio cut inside from the left, firing low, forcing Čech into another sprawling save. The rebound fell to Ronaldo, who swung wildly, only for Van Dijk to throw his body in the way, blocking it with his chest and collapsing to the turf in pain.
The crowd roared again, demanding more.
Time stretched.
Every second felt heavy.
Arsenal were hanging on that not desperately, but precariously. Kanté was running on pure will now, legs pumping, lungs burning. Xhaka barked instructions, pointing, dragging teammates into shape. Cazorla slowed the tempo when he could, putting his foot on the ball, drawing fouls, buying precious seconds.
Francesco dropped deeper, helping link play, offering an outlet, doing everything he could to keep Arsenal from being pinned back completely. Every touch he took drew a reaction from whistles, boos, shouts, hands thrown up in frustration.
Madrid pushed.
But Arsenal refused to disappear.
And as the clock ticked on, the tension coiled tighter and tighter, the Bernabéu holding its breath, knowing that one more goal either way would change everything again.
The clock kept moving.
Seventy minutes bled into seventy-one, then seventy-two, each second stretching longer than the last, each pause in play drawing groans from the stands and sharp shouts from the pitch. The Bernabéu was no longer roaring constantly now. It surged in waves with whenever Madrid touched the ball near the box, whenever Ronaldo drifted into space, whenever Asensio turned and ran at a defender.
Between those waves, there was something else.
Nervousness.
Arsenal could feel it, faint but real, seeping through the noise. The crowd still believed, of course they did but the belief was now tangled with arithmetic, with the cold awareness of what was required.
Two more goals.
That was the number hanging over everything.
Francesco glanced up at the scoreboard as play reset after another clearance.
Seventy-four minutes.
Still time. Too much time, some would say.
He wiped sweat from his brow, hands briefly resting on his hips, chest rising hard now. His legs burned, but not in a way that frightened him. This was familiar territory. This was where seasons were decided, where players learned exactly who they were under pressure.
Cazorla drifted closer to him, voice low but steady.
"Next one," Santi said. "We kill it."
Francesco nodded.
Madrid attacked again, quick and sharp. Lucas Vázquez whipped in a cross that Van Dijk headed clear, only for Modrić that still everywhere despite the miles in his legs to recycle possession instantly. Casemiro fired from distance. It deflected, bounced awkwardly, and Čech had to adjust at the last second, parrying it away with both hands before scrambling to his feet.
The ball stayed in play.
Marcelo chased it down near the touchline, hooking it back inside. Asensio darted between Monreal and Koscielny, forcing Kanté to slide across and poke the ball clear. It rolled loose toward the center circle.
And suddenly, space.
Xhaka saw it first.
He stepped in, took control, and didn't slow the game. One look up. One decisive pass forward, fizzed along the turf toward Cazorla.
Santi received it on the half-turn, body open, scanning. Casemiro lunged, just late. Modrić was retreating, trying to recover shape. Ramos stepped up, arm raised, calling the line.
Francesco moved.
Not explosively. Intelligently.
He drifted off Ramos's shoulder, timing it perfectly, letting the line hold for half a second before accelerating. Cazorla saw the run instantly.
The pass was perfect.
Not flashy. Not forced.
Just right.
Francesco met it in stride at the edge of the box.
For a fraction of a second, everything slowed.
The noise faded.
The defenders closed.
Navas set himself.
Francesco didn't think.
He struck.
Low.
Hard.
Across goal.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and rolled into the net.
Seventy-seven minutes.
3–3.
Aggregate: 7–5.
The Bernabéu fell silent.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
As if someone had cut the power.
Francesco stood still for a moment after the ball crossed the line, chest heaving, eyes locked on the net as it rippled and settled. Then he turned away, jaw clenched, fist punching the air once that controlled, deliberate.
His hat-trick.
In Madrid.
In the Bernabéu.
Alexis sprinted toward him first, screaming something incoherent, arms wrapping around him before he could even slow down. Cazorla followed, then Kanté, then Xhaka, red shirts converging around their captain in a tight huddle.
Behind them, the stands told the real story.
Hands on heads.
Scarves slowly lowered.
Mouths open in disbelief.
They all knew.
Two goals now.
Two more needed just to force extra time.
And they also knew what was coming next.
Arsenal would defend with everything they had.
Play restarted in an eerie atmosphere.
The Bernabéu wasn't dead as it was waiting. Holding its breath. Searching desperately for something, anything, to ignite it again.
Zidane paced the technical area now, arms moving, voice raised, urging his players forward. Madrid threw numbers ahead of the ball, shape loosening, desperation creeping into their patterns.
Arsenal responded immediately.
At eighty-two minutes, Wenger made his move.
The board went up again.
Alexis Sánchez.
Off.
Shkodran Mustafi.
On.
No ambiguity.
No subtlety.
This was a statement.
Mustafi slotted straight into the back line, Arsenal shifting into a deeper, more compact shape. Van Dijk and Koscielny moved slightly wider. Bellerín and Monreal tucked in tighter. Kanté dropped almost onto the toes of the center-backs, a shield of pure will.
Madrid answered with one last roll of the dice.
Kroos came off.
Kovačić came on.
Fresh legs. Direct running. A final attempt to break the lines.
The final minutes were chaos.
Cross after cross rained into the Arsenal box. Some floated. Some whipped. Some drilled low and vicious. Van Dijk cleared with his head, then his foot, then his chest. Koscielny threw himself into blocks that left him gasping. Mustafi attacked everything that came near him, no hesitation, no fear.
Čech commanded his box like a general, shouting, punching, claiming whenever he could, buying seconds with every catch, every bounce of the ball against the turf.
Francesco dropped deep now, almost into midfield, chasing shadows, closing passing lanes, doing work no highlight reel would ever show. When Arsenal did win the ball, he held it up, drew fouls, forced Madrid to reset again and again.
At eighty-six minutes, Ronaldo rose for a header at the back post.
Everyone froze.
The ball flashed just wide.
The collective exhale from the Arsenal bench was audible.
At eighty-eight, Asensio tried his luck from distance, curling one toward the top corner. Čech tipped it over with fingertips that might have saved the tie on their own.
The fourth official raised the board.
Four minutes of added time.
Groans from the home crowd.
Claps of encouragement anyway.
Madrid threw everything forward.
Ramos went up as a striker.
White shirts flooded the box.
The final corner came in the ninety-second minute.
Marcelo took it.
The cross was perfect.
Ramos met it.
Van Dijk met Ramos.
The collision echoed.
The ball spun loose.
Mustafi hooked it clear with everything he had left.
It fell to Cazorla, who took the foul, went down, and stayed down just long enough to drain another precious thirty seconds.
When the referee finally looked at his watch and brought the whistle to his lips, time seemed to stop.
Then it blew.
Long.
Sharp.
Final.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then the reality hit.
Arsenal 3.
Real Madrid 3.
Aggregate: 7–5.
Arsenal were through.
The Bernabéu reacted in fragments.
Some boos.
Some applause.
Some stunned silence.
Francesco dropped to one knee, head bowed, hands resting on the grass, chest heaving as the weight of the night finally came crashing down on him. Kanté pulled him up immediately, wrapping him in a hug that said more than words ever could.
Wenger stood on the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, eyes glistening just enough to notice if you were looking closely.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 45
Goal: 72
Assist: 3
MOTM: 10
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9