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The hallway opened up, the air cooler, the walls echoing with the last vibrations of what had been one of the greatest group-stage matches in Champions League history.
The days that followed the 4–4 epic at the Allianz Arena were unlike any Arsenal had experienced in years.
The morning after, sports pages across Europe and beyond bore headlines that could have doubled as war cries. "The Night Arsenal Grew Teeth," screamed the Daily Telegraph. "A Statement, Not a Stumble," wrote L'Équipe. Even the often-cynical German press had to concede: "Arsenal Earn Respect. Bayern Forced to Share."
Every pundit had something to say. Jamie Carragher on Sky Sports called it "one of the most resilient European performances I've seen from an English side in the last decade." Gary Neville, arms crossed and voice sharp, nodded on MNF: "You don't do that to Bayern. Not in their house. This is a side with backbone."
On social media, Francesco's impassioned speech at the press conference—"We're not passengers. We're contenders."—was clipped and shared millions of times, captioned, subtitled, and stitched onto everything from motivational videos to Arsenal fan edits laced with dramatic orchestral scores. A fan-painted mural of Francesco and Santi Cazorla appeared outside a pub in Islington, "Belief Is Not Bought" written in bold above their figures.
But for the squad, there was no time to bask.
The schedule was relentless. The Premier League wasn't going to pause just because Arsenal had shaken the Champions League order.
And next?
The North London Derby.
Tottenham.
At the Emirates.
Saturday. 7 November. One of the most emotionally charged fixtures on the calendar—and not a match that cared how well you had played in Munich.
It was still early morning when Francesco's car pulled through the Colney gates. The autumn mist clung low over the hedgerows that lined the road, dew still glistening on the grass fields that rolled past the security checkpoint.
His BMW X5 purred to a halt in the players' lot, joining a small cluster of cars already parked—Özil's matte black Mercedes, Alexis's surprisingly modest SUV, and Cech's Range Rover. Francesco slung his gym bag over one shoulder and made the short walk toward the glass entrance of the London Colney training complex.
The inside was warm, sterile, and quiet—until he passed the changing room doors.
Then came the noise.
"Captain!" called Oxlade-Chamberlain as Francesco stepped in, tossing a rolled-up sock like a football through the air. It bounced off Francesco's chest, and he caught it with a grin.
"Morning, boys," he said, eyes sweeping across the room.
Alexis was already in his compression tights, tying his boots. Monreal and Bellerín sat nearby, scrolling through their phones, their Spanish conversation lilting in the background. Özil lounged against his locker, earbuds in, but gave Francesco a small nod of greeting.
There was a new buzz in the room, one that hadn't existed last season—not even when they lifted the Premier League trophy and the FA Cup trophy. That was joy. This was something harder, sharper.
This was hunger.
Kanté entered next, quiet as ever but flashing a rare smile at Francesco as he passed him a banana from the nutrition bar. "For tomorrow," he said in his soft voice. "Spurs run a lot."
Francesco chuckled. "So do you, mate."
In the adjacent room, Per Mertesacker stood beside the tactics board, already speaking with Wenger and assistant coach Steve Bould. Van Dijk was watching with interest, arms folded across his chest. The whiteboard had a familiar formation drawn out in blue ink. Arsenal's 4-2-3-1. Spurs' also use 4-2-3-1 but can also change into 4-3-3 are sketched beside it in red.
Wenger's voice rose slightly as the players began to trickle in.
"Gentlemen," he began, "I know there is still adrenaline from Munich. But tomorrow, we return to the trenches. And Tottenham—Tottenham will want to bring us down to earth."
He paused as the room settled.
"They are not Bayern. But they are hungry. And we know—this match is about more than points. This is identity. This is pride."
Bould took over briefly, outlining key threats: Harry Kane, Dele Alli, Christian Eriksen, Erik Lamela. Pressing patterns. Fullback overlaps. Set-piece organization.
Then Wenger returned.
"We are not the underdogs anymore," he said quietly. "Not after last season. Not after Tuesday. Everyone sees us now. And that means they will come harder. Faster. We must match that. From the first whistle."
Francesco, seated near the front, felt the energy ripple through the squad. No one needed extra motivation for this one.
When the meeting broke, they headed to the pitch.
The chill in the November air hit hard as they stepped onto the outdoor training ground. But no one complained. Balls were already rolling, cones already laid out.
Wenger wanted pace. Pressing. Transitions. The first drills focused on sharp passing through a press, midfield rotations, and third-man runs.
Francesco played at the tip of attack, interchanging with Özil and Alexis. His touch was clean, his movement quick, but it was the mental sharpness that stood out.
He was seeing things two passes ahead.
The ball zipped around the mini-pitch. Kanté broke up a pass from Ramsey, Cazorla fed Oxlade-Chamberlain, and the winger slid it across goal. Francesco, arriving late, tucked it away first-time with his left foot.
Bould clapped. "Again! Reset!"
Over and over they drilled. Not flashy moves—foundational ones. The things that win derbies. Recoveries. Sprints. One-touch escapes.
By the end, most of them were drenched in sweat despite the cold. Francesco dropped to a squat, chest rising and falling. Van Dijk jogged over and offered a water bottle.
"You ready for another war?" he asked, tone dry.
Francesco smirked. "Always."
Inside, as they cooled down in the recovery room—ice baths, compression sleeves, protein shakes—the mood was focused. Controlled.
Talk of the Bayern game still lingered, but in passing now. Like a tale told last week. The present was all Spurs.
Wenger made his rounds, speaking to each player individually. His message was consistent: tomorrow, Arsenal had to prove all over again that belief wasn't temporary.
In the media room, Per spoke to Arsenal.com for the pre-match interview.
"They'll come to frustrate us," he said. "But we know what's at stake. This is our house. We defend it."
By the time the squad disbanded for the day, Francesco lingered just a little longer in the physio room, getting his hamstrings iced. His mind was already fast-forwarding.
He knew what this match would mean. To the fans. To the players. To the critics still waiting for Arsenal to collapse.
But he also knew something deeper—quieter.
This wasn't about proving people wrong anymore.
It was about proving themselves right.
When he finally stepped outside into the early evening, the sky was bruised purple, clouds rolling low and slow.
A few fans had gathered at the gates, bundled in scarves and hats, waving flags and holding out programs. Francesco signed a few, smiled for photos, and offered the same phrase to each one:
"See you tomorrow."
The morning of 8 November 2015 dawned slow and quiet, but not in the minds of Arsenal's players.
In London, the streets were already twitching with anticipation by noon. Northbound trains toward Islington were heavier than usual—packed with scarves, jerseys, chants barely held back. Red and white flags peeked out from zipped coats. At Holloway Road, one could hear vendors hawking half-and-half scarves and matchday programs with the bold title: NORTH LONDON DERBY – THE EMIRATES FORTRESS.
Inside London Colney, the calm was more composed, more surgical. At precisely 13:00, the players gathered—not a minute early, not a second late. Francesco walked in wearing a tailored black tracksuit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, boots already cleaned and laced inside. The captain's armband rested in a side pocket, embroidered with a single name: Lee.
In the lounge, a quiet energy buzzed among the squad. Cazorla was chatting with Özil over a tactical pamphlet. Alexis bounced a tennis ball repeatedly off a nearby wall, headphones tight around his ears. Virgil Van Dijk stood by the espresso machine, stoic, sipping a double shot with all the ease of a man waiting for a lift, not a war.
Francesco exchanged nods and brief greetings as he made his way in.
"Big one today, capi," said Debuchy, tossing him a protein bar with a smirk.
"Every match is big now," Francesco answered. "But yeah. This one's personal."
At 13:30 sharp, the bus pulled up outside. Its sleek red and white livery caught the sun—"Arsenal Football Club" emblazoned across its side like a royal crest. One by one, the players filed out with their bags, boots, and AirPods. A few backroom staff loaded the kit trunks, their voices efficient and muted.
Wenger stood at the base of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, watching each of them board. He didn't speak much here. He didn't need to. His presence was enough.
As Francesco climbed aboard, the manager gave him a slight nod. "Lead them well."
Francesco nodded once. "Always."
The ride to the Emirates was quiet in the way only a pre-derby ride could be—tense, focused, loaded with silent rituals. Özil reclined with a light towel draped over his face. Cazorla watched highlights of Spurs' last match on his iPad. Van Dijk sat near the front, notebook in hand, eyes flicking between a diagram of Spurs' press and the passing patterns Arsenal had drilled all week.
Francesco stared out the window, one AirPod in, listening to a piano instrumental track that he always played before big games. Something slow, grounding. Around them, the city passed in blurs—shops, markets, cars, people.
As they turned into Hornsey Road, the crowd thickened. Red shirts flooded the pavement. Police in high-vis jackets stood at every intersection. Flares were already lighting the air behind the stadium, smoke curling like incense. As the bus slowed to approach the players' entrance, chants erupted like a tide crashing on the shore.
"COME ON YOU GUNNERS!"
"FRANCESCO! FRANCESCO!"
"You know they love you now, yeah?" said Giroud from behind him, smiling lazily.
Francesco didn't turn. He just smiled to himself. "Let's make sure they still do in two hours."
The bus doors hissed open. The players stepped down into the bowels of the Emirates like gladiators entering a theatre. The marble floors gleamed under the fluorescent lights, the hallways lined with photos of great Arsenal moments—Henri lifting titles, Bergkamp's artistry, Vieira's steel.
They entered the dressing room.
Their kits were already laid out—crisp, gleaming, untouched.
But for now, it wasn't the match shirts they'd wear. It was the training kits.
The staff moved efficiently. Francesco pulled on his warm-up gear—a breathable crimson top and black shorts, his boots already broken in from the week's sessions. The captain's armband rested on the bench beside his socks. He didn't touch it yet. Not until it was time.
Wenger stepped in once the players were mostly dressed. "Out in ten," he said. "Feel the grass. Smell the air. Let it settle in."
The team filed out onto the pitch. The Emirates pitch was pristine, as always. The grass clipped to perfection. The lines chalked sharp. The stands slowly filling as fans filtered in. Flags flapped from the upper tiers, red and white banners waving down.
They ran light laps, did passing drills, stretches. Giroud juggled a ball between his feet with surprising grace for a man of his frame. Cazorla struck the crossbar from the edge of the box, drew laughs from a nearby cameraman.
Francesco jogged alone for a minute along the right touchline, the North Bank rising before him. He took in the colors, the sounds, the swell of thousands soon to become tens of thousands.
Then the voice of Bould called them back.
Warm-up complete.
It was time.
Back in the dressing room, the tension returned, denser now.
Each locker was a shrine—jerseys hung like armor, boots aligned like weapons. Francesco sat before his, hands clasped, eyes locked on the red and white kit before him. His name on the back. The number 9. The armband.
One by one, the others dressed. Van Dijk laced his boots slow, methodical. Koscielny tightened his shin pads with quiet precision. Debuchy tugged on his socks with a veteran's economy of motion. Sánchez tied and untied his left boot three times—his pre-match ritual.
Then Wenger entered.
No notebook this time.
Just his voice.
"We play our game," he said. "No fear. No caution. Spurs will press. They will foul. They will try to make this ugly."
He stepped closer.
"But we will be clear. In our minds. In our movement. In our football."
He gestured toward the tactics board. The lineup was simple, but exact:
4-2-3-1.
Petr Čech in goal—calm, commanding.
Defense:
Nacho Monreal on the left—tactical and intelligent.
Virgil van Dijk and Laurent Koscielny in the center—power and experience.
Mathieu Debuchy on the right—battle-tested and fit.
Midfield:
N'Golo Kanté and Santi Cazorla—engine and elegance.
Ahead:
Mesut Özil—the conductor.
Wingers:
Alexis Sánchez on the left—fire.
Francesco Lee on the right—fire and ice. The captain.
Up top:
Olivier Giroud—the target, the hammer.
Substitutes:
David Ospina, Calum Chambers, Per Mertesacker, Kieran Gibbs, Mathieu Flamini, Mikel Arteta, Alex Iwobi.
"This is your home," Wenger continued. "Make it clear to them."
He turned.
"Francesco."
Francesco stood, the dressing room silencing like a theatre before curtain call. He stepped toward Wenger, who handed him the armband.
"For the club," Wenger said. "For the badge."
Francesco took it without a word. Slid it over his sleeve. Tightened it once.
The room held its breath.
Then Cazorla clapped his hands. "Let's go win a derby."
Shouts rose. Boots thudded. The tunnel called.
As they walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, the din of the Emirates greeted them like a tempest. Flags waved. Songs rang out.
And at the front of the line, beneath the Arsenal crest, Francesco led.
Captain. Contender. Gunner.
He stepped onto the pitch.
The tunnel roared with the sound of adrenaline—not spoken, but felt. It rolled off the walls, off the boots scraping against polished concrete, off the hearts pounding inside every chest. The Emirates above was shaking with anticipation. Flags swirled. Songs boomed. It was derby day. And it was time.
Francesco stood at the front of the Arsenal line, armband snug around his sleeve, chin high. Beside him, Hugo Lloris adjusted his gloves and looked straight ahead. There were no words between them. They didn't need them. Captain to captain, they both understood: everything was on the line.
The players stepped out.
The floodlights hit like stage lights. The roar hit like a wave.
The home fans surged with sound—red and white in a sea of motion. The away end bounced to its own rhythm, but they were outnumbered and outvoiced. At the Emirates, on this day, nothing was louder than Arsenal belief.
The two teams lined up beside the referee and his assistants. Faces tight, expressions unreadable. Battle was minutes away.
The formalities commenced. Francesco shook hands with the officials, then one by one with the Spurs players. Vertonghen. Eriksen. Dier. Walker. And then Lamela—whose eyes didn't quite meet his. Francesco didn't press it. There would be time for that on the pitch.
When they reached the center circle, Francesco and Lloris stepped forward for the coin toss.
The referee, grim and focused, held out the coin. "Call it in the air."
"Tails," Francesco said.
The coin spun, twinkled, landed.
"Tails it is. Arsenal kick off."
Lloris nodded curtly. Francesco offered his hand. It was shaken, briefly, tightly.
With that, the players separated, jogging to their positions. The Emirates crowd rose as one, the chant echoing like thunder:
"COME ON YOU GUNNERS!"
Francesco took his place on the right wing, Alexis across from him on the left, Giroud in the middle. Özil behind them, eyes scanning like a master chess player. Behind, the double pivot of Cazorla and Kanté were locked in conversation—code words, reminders, map points.
The back line looked calm, composed—Monreal adjusting his socks, Van Dijk nodding to Koscielny, Debuchy crouched and tapping his shins.
Petr Čech stood in goal, as still as a statue until the ball moved.
The whistle blew.
And the game began.
Arsenal started aggressively, pressing high. Within two minutes, Francesco had already carved a sliver of space down the right, dragging Vertonghen with him before cutting inside and laying it back for Cazorla, who fizzed a shot inches wide.
But Spurs were no passengers.
At the other end, Eriksen danced into space and released Kane, whose shot was low and hard. Čech got down brilliantly, pawing it wide with a strong right hand.
The first ten minutes flew like a blur. Back and forth. Tackles flying in. Passes sharp, sometimes too sharp. But the tempo never dropped.
In the 12th minute, Alexis tested Lloris with a curling shot from the left. The French keeper parried it, strong wrists sending it into the air before Dier cleared.
A minute later, Spurs struck back. Eriksen again, threading a clever pass to Lamela, who twisted inside Van Dijk and rifled a shot—Čech saved with his legs.
By the 18th minute, both goalkeepers had made three saves apiece. Six in total. All crucial. All world-class.
It was electric.
Then came the flashpoint.
Kanté was patrolling the midfield like a hawk, breaking up patterns, anticipating danger before it existed. In the 20th minute, Lamela tried to burst through with a loose touch and quick recovery. But Kanté was faster. Cleaner. He slid in low and hard—not reckless, but precise—taking the ball cleanly off Lamela's feet and springing to his own again before the Argentine could blink.
The stadium exploded in applause.
But Lamela?
He wasn't applauding.
Frustrated, he turned and shoved Kanté hard in the chest.
Kanté staggered back a step, blinking. Surprised more than anything. He raised his arms—not in retaliation, but in disbelief.
That was all it took.
Instantly, players from both sides swarmed. Dier came running in. Giroud and Özil got between bodies. Cazorla stepped in front of Kanté. Lamela was shouting, gesturing furiously. The linesman waved frantically. The crowd was on its feet, booing, shouting, whistling.
Francesco and Lloris rushed in almost simultaneously, pushing players apart.
"Back!" Francesco barked, one hand on Alexis's chest, the other pointing at Debuchy, who had squared up with Dier. "Back off! Now!"
Lloris did the same with his men, his voice louder than it had been all game. "Enough! Get out of his face!"
Kanté, calm as ever, stood silently, still confused.
The referee called both Lamela and Kanté toward him.
The stadium held its breath.
Francesco stepped with Kanté. "He did nothing," he said, firmly, clearly. "It was a perfect tackle."
Lamela was still gesturing.
The referee raised a hand. "Quiet."
He looked at Kanté. "Clean challenge. No foul."
He turned to Lamela.
"But the reaction is unacceptable."
He reached into his pocket—and the yellow card emerged.
Straight into Lamela's face.
The Emirates roared in approval.
Kanté nodded once, still not speaking.
The game resumed—but the tone had shifted.
This wasn't just a derby now.
It was war. And the red side had just drawn the first moral victory.
As the match pressed on, Arsenal's intent sharpened. Giroud held the ball up better, dragging defenders with him. Özil ghosted into pockets of space between lines. Francesco and Alexis switched flanks briefly, trying to unbalance Spurs' shape.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 16
Goal: 25
Assist: 4
MOTM: 2
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9