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The bus hummed along, red crest gleaming faintly in the pale winter light, carrying a team united not just by talent, but by intelligence, discipline, and the quiet joy of knowing they had played football the right way.
The night in Sutton faded gently into memory, the kind that lingered not because of noise or spectacle, but because of how complete it had felt. By the time the bus rolled back through the quiet streets toward London Colney, most of the players had fallen into that familiar post-match state with half-asleep, half-reflective, headphones on, thoughts drifting between what had been done and what was coming next.
For Francesco, the satisfaction stayed with him longer.
He sat by the window, forehead resting lightly against the cool glass, watching streetlights blur into streaks of amber. Six goals. A clean sheet. Control from start to finish. His own name on the scoresheet again, but more than that, the sense that Arsenal had played exactly how Wenger wanted them to play: intelligent, patient, ruthless when necessary.
Those were the nights that built belief.
And belief, he knew, would be tested very soon.
Then the days pass to 4 March 2017 that arrived with a different weight to it.
Liverpool away was never just another fixture. It didn't matter what the table said or what form either team was in Anfield had a way of stripping games down to something rawer, louder, more emotional. The air itself seemed to vibrate with expectation long before kickoff.
The Arsenal team bus cut through the city streets in the early afternoon, red brick buildings lining the roads, shop signs flickering past the windows. Inside, the atmosphere was quiet but alert. No music blaring. No forced jokes. Just the low hum of conversation, the occasional laugh, the sound of tape being ripped, boots being adjusted.
Francesco sat a few rows back, hood down, earbuds in but silent. He preferred to hear the bus from the engine, the faint murmur of voices, the rhythm of travel. It grounded him.
Ahead of him, Alexis Sánchez was staring out the opposite window, jaw set, leg bouncing lightly. Theo Walcott leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, visualizing runs he would make later. Granit Xhaka flipped idly through his phone, then locked it and slipped it into his bag, already mentally switching on.
At the front, Wenger sat upright, coat immaculate, glasses perched low on his nose as he reviewed notes one final time. He didn't need to speak yet. Everyone knew where they were going.
As the bus turned the final corner and Anfield came into view, something shifted.
The stadium rose suddenly from the surrounding streets, imposing and unmistakable. Red banners fluttered. Fans gathered near the gates, scarves held high, some filming the bus as it rolled past, others simply watching, arms folded, eyes sharp.
"This is it," someone muttered quietly.
The bus slowed, then came to a stop.
The doors hissed open.
Cold air rushed in, sharper than London, carrying the smell of damp concrete and anticipation. One by one, the Arsenal players stood, shouldered their bags, and stepped down onto the pavement.
Francesco was among the first.
The moment his boots touched the ground, he felt it with that familiar tightening in his chest, not nerves exactly, but readiness. He lifted his gaze toward the stadium façade, took it in without expression, then followed the line of players toward the entrance.
A few Liverpool supporters shouted with some taunts, some admiration, some just noise for the sake of noise. Cameras clicked. Stewards guided them through.
Inside, the corridor swallowed them whole.
The sound changed immediately. Outside noise dulled, replaced by echoes with boots on concrete, voices bouncing off walls, the distant thud of a ball already being kicked somewhere inside.
The Arsenal dressing room awaited.
Bags were dropped in familiar places. Benches creaked under weight. Jackets were peeled off, hung neatly. There was an unspoken routine to it all, comforting in its repetition.
Players changed quickly into training kits with light tops, shorts, boots laced tight. Physios checked ankles and knees, hands firm but practiced. Tape was applied. Water bottles lined up.
Francesco slipped into his boots, tugged each lace once more than necessary, then stood and rolled his shoulders. He glanced around the room.
This was a strong side.
Different from Sutton. Different stakes. Different intensity.
He caught Özil's eye across the room. Mesut gave a small nod, calm as ever, as if this were a kickabout in training rather than Anfield away.
Outside, a steward knocked once.
"Warm-up in two."
They filed out together.
Anfield underfoot felt different.
The grass was immaculate, springy, trimmed just right. The stands loomed close, especially the Kop end, already filling with red shirts even this early. Banners hung heavy. Flags waved. Songs began in fragments, testing acoustics, building toward something louder.
As Arsenal stepped onto the pitch, a low ripple of noise followed them. Not hostile yet. Curious. Measuring.
Francesco jogged lightly, eyes scanning the stadium. He had played in big grounds before, but Anfield always demanded acknowledgment. You didn't ignore it. You absorbed it, accepted it, then played anyway.
The warm-up began.
Short passes. Stretching. Acceleration drills. Shots from the edge of the box. The rhythm built gradually, bodies warming, muscles loosening.
Francesco paired briefly with Walcott, exchanging quick one-twos, testing movement. Alexis joined them moments later, snapping into tackles even in warm-up, intensity already high.
"Sharp," Alexis muttered after one exchange, half-approval, half-command.
Francesco smiled faintly. "Always."
Around them, Liverpool players emerged as well, their own warm-up unfolding at the opposite end. Red against red, separated by space and history.
James Milner was easy to spot that focused, disciplined, already talking, organizing. The atmosphere thickened with every passing minute.
The warm-up ended as it always did with final sprints, a few long shots, applause from the stands as players jogged off.
The tunnel swallowed them again.
Back inside, the players changed into match kits.
Red shirts. White sleeves. The Arsenal crest stitched proudly over the heart.
Francesco pulled his shirt on slowly, smoothing the fabric, feeling the weight of it settle. He slipped the captain's armband over his left arm and adjusted it until it sat just right.
Captain.
The word still carried gravity.
Around him, boots were tightened one final time. Shin guards adjusted. Gloves pulled on. Silence crept in which not uncomfortable, but focused.
Wenger stepped forward.
The room stilled completely.
He didn't raise his voice. He never needed to.
"We play 4-2-3-1," he began calmly, eyes moving from face to face.
"Petr," he nodded toward the back. "You organize. You command."
Petr Čech acknowledged with a firm nod.
"Defense," Wenger continued, pointing to the board. "Left to right: Andrew Robertson. Virgil van Dijk. Laurent Koscielny. Kyle Walker."
Robertson adjusted his socks. Van Dijk stood tall, expression unreadable. Koscielny rolled his neck once, focused. Walker bounced lightly on his toes, already buzzing with energy.
"In midfield," Wenger said, tapping the central area, "Granit and N'Golo."
Xhaka straightened. Kanté smiled softly, as if the instruction were obvious.
"You protect. You recover. You give us balance."
He shifted the magnet slightly higher.
"Mesut."
Özil lifted his head.
"You are free. Find space. Make them move."
Then the wide areas.
"Alexis. Theo."
Alexis's jaw tightened. Walcott exhaled slowly.
"Be direct. Be brave."
Finally, Wenger's gaze settled on Francesco.
"And Francesco," he said evenly, but there was something deliberate in his tone. "You lead the line. You lead the team."
Francesco met his eyes. "Yes, boss."
"You press first. You set the tone. Play with intelligence."
Wenger stepped back slightly.
"Our substitutes," he added, almost as an afterthought but no less important. "Ospina. Mustafi. Bellerín. Cazorla. Oxlade-Chamberlain. Gnabry. Giroud."
Each name acknowledged.
"This is Anfield," Wenger concluded. "They will test you emotionally. Do not give them that advantage. Keep the ball. Keep your shape. Respect the game."
Silence followed.
Not the awkward kind.
The ready kind.
"Let's go," Wenger said quietly.
The walk to the tunnel felt longer than usual.
The sound grew with every step frlm singing, full voices, layered and powerful. "You'll Never Walk Alone" began to rise, slow at first, then swelling, echoing through concrete and bone alike.
Arsenal lined up behind the referees.
Liverpool stood beside them.
Francesco took his place at the front, captain's armband snug, shoulders back. To his immediate right stood James Milner, Liverpool's captain for the day. Experienced. Respected. Eyes forward.
Milner glanced sideways briefly.
"Big one," he said, voice neutral.
Francesco nodded once. "Always is."
No hostility. No smiles. Just mutual understanding.
The referees checked kits. Final words were exchanged. The fourth official adjusted his headset.
Then the signal came.
They walked.
Out of the tunnel.
Into noise.
The stadium exploded as the teams emerged, sound crashing down from all sides. Lights blazed. Flags waved. The pitch opened before them, impossibly green.
Francesco stepped onto the grass, heart steady, senses sharp. He heard cheers, boos, songs, whistles but they blended into one great wall of sound.
They lined up beside the referee.
Hands were shaken with firm, professional. Faces familiar. Rivals acknowledged.
The photographers called out. The starting elevens gathered for the photo, arms linked, expressions composed.
Then the captains were summoned to the center circle.
Francesco walked with Milner, boots thudding softly against the turf, the noise fading slightly in the middle of the pitch.
The referee held the coin.
A simple thing.
But everything hung on it.
Francesco listened, nodded, answered when required. The coin flipped, caught, shown.
Decisions made, as Liverpool get the kick off.
They shook hands once more, then head toward their own half as Liverpool players prepare for the kick-off.
The referee raised his arm.
The whistle blew.
And Anfield exhaled all at once.
Liverpool kicked off, the ball rolled backward, and immediately the noise surged again, louder, sharper, pressing down on the pitch like a physical force. Red shirts poured forward with intent, driven on by the crowd, by habit, by identity. This was how Liverpool played at home with fast, emotional, relentless from the first second.
Firmino dropped deep, dragging a defender with him. Coutinho drifted inward, already scanning for space between the lines. Mané exploded into motion down the flank, boots skimming the turf as if he were barely touching it.
For a moment, it looked chaotic.
But it wasn't.
Arsenal had expected this.
From the first Liverpool surge, the structure held.
Kanté snapped into position instinctively, shadowing Firmino's movements, never committing too early, never letting him turn freely. Xhaka stayed a few yards deeper, body angled to block the passing lane into Coutinho. Özil hovered just behind Wijnaldum and Lallana, not tackling, not diving in, but constantly present with arms out, steps short, guiding them away from danger.
Liverpool tried to force it anyway.
Can took possession and looked up, eyes searching for Mané's run. The pass never came. Kanté was there, cutting the angle before it could open. Lallana tried to play a quick one-two with Wijnaldum, but Özil stepped into the lane at just the right moment, toe poking the ball away without fuss.
The crowd groaned.
Then urged them on again.
From his position up front, Francesco watched it unfold with a striker's calm awareness. He didn't chase blindly. He waited. He pressed when the cue came when Matip took an extra touch, when Klavan hesitated, when Mignolet lingered a second too long on the ball.
The first press came in the fourth minute.
Klavan received the ball near the left side of Liverpool's defense. Francesco shifted his run, angling his body to cut off the return pass to Milner. Sánchez sprinted across from the left, Walcott already accelerating on the right.
Klavan panicked.
The clearance was rushed, slicing awkwardly into midfield.
Xhaka collected it cleanly.
Just like that, the momentum shifted.
Arsenal didn't rush forward. They recycled possession, calming the game, drawing Liverpool out. Van Dijk stepped up from the back with authority, switching play wide to Walker, who burst forward immediately.
Walcott peeled off his marker, speed threatening even without the ball. Sánchez dropped into the half-space, demanding possession, already planning his next move.
Liverpool's back line with Milner, Klavan, Matip, Clyne began to feel it.
They weren't slow.
But they were being asked questions constantly.
Francesco drifted between Klavan and Matip, never static, always just off their shoulder. Sánchez darted inside, then wide, then inside again, dragging Clyne with him. Walcott stayed high and wide, pinning Milner back, daring him to step forward.
By the tenth minute, Arsenal had settled.
The ball moved with confidence now. Xhaka switched play with ease. Kanté snapped into tackles and immediately released the ball. Özil began to find pockets of space, receiving on the turn, gliding past one challenge, then another.
Liverpool pressed harder in response.
Firmino tried to spark something, dropping deep, spinning away from Kanté once, twice. Coutinho attempted a trademark curler from distance in the twelfth minute, but Čech was equal to it, hands firm, body balanced.
The Kop roared encouragement.
But Arsenal didn't flinch.
They waited.
And at fifteen minutes, they struck.
It began with Walcott.
Walker surged forward down the right, pulling Mané back with him. Walcott stayed high, hugging the touchline, forcing Milner into an uncomfortable decision. Özil slid the ball into Walker, who returned it first time into Walcott's path.
Walcott exploded.
One touch past Milner.
Another to knock it into space.
Matip stepped across to cover.
Too late.
Francesco had already read it.
He peeled away from Klavan, darting into the channel between center-back and full-back. Walcott's pass was perfectly weighted that low, sharp, inviting.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch.
Shot.
The ball skimmed across the grass, past Mignolet's outstretched hand, and into the bottom corner.
Silence.
Not complete silence but the kind that steals breath from a stadium.
Then the away end erupted.
Francesco didn't sprint away wildly. He turned, fists clenched, jaw tight, and let out a single shout toward the corner flag before being swarmed by teammates.
Walcott arrived first, thumping him on the chest. Sánchez followed, grinning fiercely, shouting something in Spanish that was lost in the noise. Özil jogged over, calm smile in place, as if he had always known it would happen.
1–0.
At Anfield.
From the touchline, Wenger allowed himself the smallest nod.
Liverpool responded immediately, as expected.
The tempo increased. Passes were sharper. Tackles flew in harder. Mané drove at Robertson with intent, beating him once, then again, firing a low cross across the box that Koscielny dealt with decisively.
Firmino wriggled free of Kanté briefly in the twentieth minute, slipping a pass into Coutinho, whose shot deflected just wide. The Kop roared again, belief surging back into the stands.
But Arsenal didn't retreat.
They absorbed the pressure, then stepped forward again.
And Liverpool's defense continued to wobble.
Klavan struggled with Francesco's movement, constantly unsure whether to step out or hold the line. Matip found himself dragged wider than he wanted, opening gaps centrally. Milner worked tirelessly, but Sánchez was relentless, turning him inside out, forcing fouls, demanding attention.
In the twenty-seventh minute, Arsenal doubled their lead.
This time, it was beautiful.
Kanté won the ball near the halfway line, a clean, perfectly timed tackle that sent the ball rolling into Özil's path. Without looking, Özil flicked it forward into space.
Francesco dropped deep to receive, back to goal, drawing Klavan with him. One touch to control. A second to shield. Then, with the outside of his boot, he slipped the ball into Sánchez's run.
Alexis was already gone.
He burst past Milner, cut inside Matip, and fired low and hard across Mignolet.
Goal.
2–0.
The away end went mad.
Francesco pointed at Sánchez, grinning now, pure joy flashing across his face before he composed himself again. Sánchez thumped his chest, eyes blazing, feeding off the moment.
Liverpool looked stunned.
Anfield didn't know whether to roar in defiance or sink into uneasy silence. The noise wavered, fractured.
But Liverpool were never going to lie down.
They surged again.
At thirty-five minutes, they found their moment.
It started with a turnover high up the pitch. Walker's clearance was intercepted by Can, who immediately fed Mané. The Senegalese winger drove forward, pace terrifying, dragging defenders toward him.
Firmino peeled off Koscielny at the last moment.
Mané's pass was perfectly timed.
Firmino struck first time.
Čech got a hand to it, but not enough.
The ball hit the inside of the post and bounced in.
2–1.
Anfield erupted.
This time, the roar was deafening, shaking the stands, rattling the pitch itself. Players pumped fists. Fans leapt to their feet. Belief flooded back in an instant.
Francesco turned toward his teammates, clapping his hands sharply.
"Stay calm," he shouted. "Same game."
Kanté nodded. Xhaka raised a hand. Özil slowed the tempo deliberately on the restart, drawing a foul within seconds.
The remainder of the half settled into a tense rhythm.
Liverpool pressed, driven by emotion and the crowd. Arsenal managed, slowed, controlled where they could. There were half-chances at both ends from Mané flashing one wide, to Walcott forcing a save from Mignolet but no further breakthrough came.
When the halftime whistle finally blew, it felt like a release.
Players walked off breathing hard, sweat steaming faintly in the cold air.
2–1.
Nothing decided.
The dressing room buzzed quietly as players took their seats.
Boots were loosened. Shirts tugged at. Bottles passed around. The noise of the stadium faded into a distant hum beyond the walls.
Wenger waited until everyone had settled.
Then he spoke.
"We are doing many things well," he said calmly. "But we must be intelligent."
He pointed to the board.
"They will come stronger in the first ten minutes. Do not lose structure."
His eyes moved to the midfield.
"Granit. N'Golo. Stay compact. Do not chase."
To the defense:
"Full-backs, choose your moments. Do not give them transitions."
Then to the front.
"Francesco. Alexis. Theo."
They looked up.
"Be patient. The spaces will come again."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"We do not fight the atmosphere," Wenger concluded. "We play our game."
Silence followed.
Focused.
Ready.
Francesco leaned back slightly, breathing deeply, heart steady once more.
The second half awaited.
The tunnel breathed them back out into the cold.
Anfield had not quieted during the break. If anything, it felt sharper now, more focused, as if the stadium itself had decided the second half would be something to survive rather than simply witness. The floodlights burned white against the early evening sky, the grass glistening faintly where studs had torn it up in the first forty-five minutes.
Francesco emerged with the others, captain's armband still snug, jaw set. He glanced once toward the Kop, where scarves were already raised again, voices warming up, throats cleared for another assault of sound.
This was the part of the match Wenger had warned them about.
The first ten minutes.
Liverpool gathered near the center circle, bodies tight, heads close. Klopp paced his technical area, clapping his hands, urging, demanding. Arsenal spread into their shape, Kanté and Xhaka exchanging a brief word, Özil stretching his neck once, Sánchez bouncing lightly on his toes.
The referee checked his watch.
The whistle blew.
And Liverpool exploded.
There was no slow build this time, no testing passes. From the restart, the ball was driven forward aggressively, Can thundering into a challenge near the halfway line, winning possession cleanly and igniting the crowd instantly. The noise swelled like a wave breaking.
Firmino dropped deep, back to goal, and for the first time all night, Kanté arrived half a second late. Firmino rolled him expertly and slipped the ball wide to Mané, who was already sprinting into space.
Walker turned and chased, legs pumping, but Mané was electric now, adrenaline surging, the Kop screaming his name. He cut inside, then back out, forcing Walker to hesitate just long enough.
The pass came inside again, quick and sharp.
Firmino, still moving, returned it first time into Mané's path.
It happened fast.
Too fast.
Mané struck low with his left foot, across goal.
Čech dove, arms outstretched, but the ball kissed the inside of the far post and nestled into the net.
47th minute.
2-2.
Anfield detonated.
The roar was immediate and overwhelming, a physical thing that rattled ribs and filled lungs. Red shirts surged forward in celebration, fists pumping, bodies colliding. Klopp leapt into the air on the touchline, fists clenched, teeth bared.
Francesco stood near the center circle, hands on hips for a heartbeat, eyes locked on the net.
Then he clapped.
Once.
Twice.
Loud, deliberate.
"Together!" he shouted, voice cutting through the chaos. "Reset. Now."
Koscielny raised an arm, rallying the back line. Xhaka jogged over to Kanté, a hand briefly on his shoulder. Özil slowed the restart, placing his foot on the ball, forcing the moment to breathe.
But Liverpool were flying now.
For the next few minutes, it felt like the pitch tilted toward Arsenal's goal. Every loose ball seemed to fall to a red shirt. Every tackle was cheered like a goal. Mané continued to drive relentlessly, Coutinho floated dangerously between lines, and Firmino's movement dragged defenders out of shape.
In the 50th minute, Coutinho whipped a shot just over the bar. Two minutes later, Milner delivered a cross that Firmino met with his head, only for Čech to claw it away at full stretch. Each chance sent another shockwave through the stands.
Arsenal wobbled, but they did not fall.
Francesco dropped deeper than usual, offering an outlet, shielding the ball under pressure, drawing fouls where he could. Sánchez tracked back more, biting into tackles, frustration fueling his work rate. Walcott stayed high, a constant reminder that Arsenal could still hurt them.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the storm began to pass.
At around the 55th minute, Arsenal managed to string together a longer spell of possession. Xhaka switched play calmly. Kanté intercepted a loose pass and recycled it without fuss. Özil drifted into space and slowed the tempo with a simple sideways pass, forcing Liverpool to reset.
The crowd's volume dipped slightly.
Not silent.
But no longer overwhelming.
Then came the moment.
It started with a foul.
Francesco received the ball just outside the box, back to goal, and turned sharply between Matip and Klavan. Klavan lunged, mistimed, and clipped his heel.
The whistle went.
Free kick.
Central.
Twenty-five yards out.
Francesco picked himself up slowly, dusting grass from his shorts. He glanced at the spot, then at the wall forming in front of him Milner barking instructions, Matip gesturing, Mignolet setting his position.
Özil approached briefly, murmuring something low, then peeled away. Sánchez stood to one side, hands on hips, watching intently. Walcott hovered on the edge of the box, ready for a rebound.
The crowd sensed danger and responded with noise, trying to drown thought, to disrupt concentration.
Francesco blocked it out.
He placed the ball carefully, nudging it once with his boot until it felt right. He took three steps back. One to the side.
He breathed in.
Thought of nothing.
The whistle sounded.
He ran up and struck through the ball cleanly, foot wrapping around it with perfect balance. The ball lifted, bending up and over the wall, dipping viciously at the last second.
Mignolet moved early.
Too early.
The ball sailed beyond his fingertips and crashed into the top corner.
For a fraction of a second, there was disbelief.
Then pandemonium.
The away end erupted in pure, unfiltered joy, voices screaming, arms flailing, bodies bouncing as one. Francesco turned away immediately, fists clenched, shouting toward the sky as teammates poured toward him.
Sánchez leapt onto his back. Walcott wrapped him in a bear hug. Özil arrived smiling, calm even now, a hand placed briefly on Francesco's shoulder as if to say, I knew.
So adjust reactions.
The scoreboard flicked.
Arsenal 3. Liverpool 2.
At Anfield.
Again.
Francesco jogged back toward the center circle, face composed once more, clapping his hands, urging calm. The free kick had not just restored the lead; it had punctured Liverpool's momentum, forcing doubt back into the stadium.
But doubt at Anfield never lasted long.
Liverpool responded with fury.
The tempo surged again, almost immediately. Klopp screamed from the sideline, demanding more movement, more risk. Milner pushed higher. Clyne overlapped aggressively. Coutinho began to drift wider, searching for new angles.
Arsenal dropped slightly deeper, shape compact but strained now under the renewed pressure. Kanté and Xhaka worked tirelessly, legs churning, bodies colliding. Koscielny threw himself into blocks. Walker chased until his lungs burned.
In the 62nd minute, Liverpool came close again. Mané beat his man and cut the ball back across the box, but Firmino's shot was smothered by Čech at the near post. The rebound fell to Can, who blasted it over in frustration.
The Kop howled.
And then, in the 64th minute, they broke through.
It began with Coutinho.
He received the ball on the left, just inside Arsenal's half, and slowed play deliberately, head up, scanning. Arsenal's midfield shifted toward him instinctively, bodies drawn by the threat.
That was the mistake.
With a subtle drop of the shoulder, Coutinho slipped past Xhaka and threaded a perfectly weighted pass into the space Kanté had just vacated.
Wijnaldum burst through.
The run was perfectly timed.
Koscielny stepped out to meet him, but Wijnaldum took one touch to the side and struck with his second, low and precise.
Čech reacted late.
The ball rolled inside the post.
3–3.
Anfield erupted again, louder than before, as if the stadium had been waiting for this moment all night. Players collided in celebration, red shirts swarming Wijnaldum as Klopp punched the air repeatedly on the touchline.
Francesco stood still near the center circle, chest rising and falling heavily now, sweat dripping from his hairline. He placed his hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the far end of the pitch.
The match had become something else entirely now.
Chaos.
Emotion.
Belief colliding with belief.
He turned to his teammates, clapping again, louder this time, voice hoarse but strong.
"Listen to me," he shouted. "We are still here. We keep playing."
Kanté nodded, exhaustion etched into his smile. Özil adjusted his socks calmly, eyes already drifting back into focus. Sánchez wiped his face and grinned fiercely, energized by the madness.
The referee gestured for the restart.
The ball was placed at the center.
The ball sat motionless on the center spot, white against the green, waiting.
The noise did not recede. If anything, it thickened, layered with belief and desperation and the sense that this match had slipped entirely beyond control. Anfield was no longer just a stadium; it was a living thing now, breathing, reacting, feeding on every touch, every mistake, every moment of courage.
Francesco stayed near the center circle for a second longer than necessary, hands on hips, drawing in air that felt heavier with each breath. Sweat ran down his temples, stung his eyes. His legs burned, not with pain, but with the deep fatigue of a match that demanded everything.
Yet inside him, something else burned brighter.
Resolve.
The referee's whistle pierced the noise, and Arsenal kicked off again, the ball rolling back to Xhaka, then sideways to Kanté. Arsenal didn't rush. Not now. Not after everything they had weathered. They needed control again, even if only for a minute, even if only to remind themselves who they were.
Liverpool pressed instantly.
Firmino charged down Kanté. Mané sprinted toward Xhaka. Milner barked orders, pushing his line higher. Klopp was a blur on the touchline, arms windmilling, voice raw.
Arsenal held.
Xhaka dropped between the center-backs to receive, inviting pressure, then released the ball wide to Robertson. Robertson drove forward, forcing Clyne to retreat, buying precious seconds. Sánchez checked back to help, laid it off, spun away again.
The game breathed.
Barely.
At the 67th minute, Wenger made his move.
The fourth official raised the board.
Özil's number appeared first.
Then Walcott's.
A murmur rippled through the stadium, surprise mixed with curiosity. Özil, who had glided through the game with quiet control. Walcott, whose pace had stretched Liverpool all night.
They walked toward the touchline together.
Özil reached Francesco first, touching his arm lightly. "Keep going," he said simply, eyes calm, trusting.
Walcott followed, pulling Francesco into a quick embrace. "Finish it," he grinned. "I'll be watching."
On came Santi Cazorla and Serge Gnabry.
Cazorla jogged on with that familiar bounce, small frame, big presence, eyes already scanning angles, possibilities. Gnabry followed, younger, sharper, buzzing with energy, jaw set with determination.
Almost immediately, Klopp responded.
Lallana's number went up.
Lucas Leiva came on.
A move for control. For steel. For stability in the center of the pitch.
The chess match deepened.
Cazorla's first touch was pure silk, cushioning the ball under pressure, rolling away from Can as if the challenge had never come. The crowd whistled, half in appreciation, half in frustration.
Francesco drifted closer to him instinctively.
With Cazorla on, Arsenal had a different rhythm. The ball moved quicker now, shorter passes, triangles forming and dissolving. Liverpool chased, legs heavy from the relentless tempo, their pressing no longer quite as sharp.
Still, they were dangerous.
In the 72nd minute, Mané burst through again, forcing Koscielny into a last-ditch challenge that earned a roar like a goal. Firmino tried his luck moments later from distance, dragging the shot wide.
The clock ticked.
Every minute felt stretched.
Francesco glanced once toward the Arsenal bench. Wenger stood still, hands in pockets, face unreadable, but his eyes never left the pitch.
Then, in the 77th minute, Arsenal struck again.
And this time, it was beautiful.
It started deep.
Kanté intercepted a loose ball from Lucas and immediately gave it to Cazorla. Santi turned away from pressure with a deft spin, body low, center of gravity impossible to shift. He carried the ball forward, drawing two red shirts toward him.
Francesco peeled away, dragging Matip with him.
That was the opening.
Cazorla slipped the ball into the right channel with the outside of his foot, a pass weighted perfectly, timed perfectly.
Gnabry was already running.
He burst past Milner, took the ball in stride, and cut inside the box without hesitation. Mignolet rushed out, trying to narrow the angle.
Gnabry didn't panic.
He opened his body and placed the shot calmly into the far corner.
For a heartbeat, Anfield froze.
Then the away end exploded.
4–3.
Arsenal again.
Gnabry slid on his knees toward the corner, fists clenched, scream tearing out of him. Cazorla arrived laughing, arms wide, engulfing him in a hug. Francesco jogged over, clapping hard, pride flashing across his tired face.
"That's it," he shouted. "That's us."
Liverpool looked stunned.
Not broken.
But shaken.
Klopp turned immediately to his bench, shouting, gesturing, demanding urgency. Wenger, meanwhile, glanced at his watch.
Four minutes later, he made another call.
The board went up again.
Francesco's number.
A pause rippled through the stadium.
Francesco looked toward the bench, then nodded once. He jogged toward the touchline, chest heaving, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him. As he passed Wenger, the manager placed a hand briefly on his arm.
"Excellent," Wenger said quietly. "You have led."
Francesco nodded, eyes bright, then turned to the pitch one last time.
The crowd acknowledged him in their own way boos, applause, noise layered into one. He had been at the center of everything tonight.
On came Olivier Giroud.
At the same moment, Klopp made a double change.
Coutinho's number went up.
Klavan's too.
Origi and Lovren entered, raw pace and physicality added in desperation.
Liverpool were going all in.
Arsenal reshaped quickly. Giroud took up his place up front, back straight, presence immediate. Sánchez drifted wider again, eyes sharp, sensing opportunity.
The game became frantic.
Liverpool threw bodies forward, crosses flying into the box, Lovren joining attacks, Milner delivering from deep. Arsenal defended with everything they had Koscielny blocking, Van Dijk heading clear, Kanté somehow still covering ground no human should be able to cover at this stage.
Then, in the 84th minute, Arsenal delivered the knockout blow.
It came from chaos.
A Liverpool corner was cleared half-heartedly. The ball dropped to Sánchez near the halfway line. He took one touch, lifted his head, and saw space.
He ran.
Pure instinct.
Lovren chased. Lucas tried to recover. Origi sprinted back.
None of it mattered.
Sánchez drove into the final third, legs pumping, lungs burning. Giroud recognized it instantly and peeled away toward the far post, dragging his marker with him.
Sánchez slowed just enough to draw the defense in.
Then slipped the pass.
Giroud met it first time.
A thunderous strike.
The net bulged.
5–3.
For a split second, there was nothing.
Then the away end erupted into absolute delirium.
Giroud turned away roaring, fists clenched, teammates piling onto him in disbelief and joy. Sánchez collapsed to his knees, screaming toward the sky, emotion pouring out of him.
On the bench, Wenger finally allowed himself a smile.
Anfield, for the first time all night, fell quiet.
Not entirely silent.
But stunned.
The last minutes passed in a blur of exhaustion and management. Arsenal slowed the game whenever they could. Cazorla took his time over free kicks. Giroud shielded the ball in corners. Kanté continued to intercept passes, legs somehow still responding.
Liverpool tried once more, pride pushing them forward, but the belief was gone now. The passes lacked conviction. The shots were rushed.
When the referee finally raised the whistle to his lips and blew for full time, the sound cut through the night like release.
Arsenal players dropped where they stood, some hands on knees, others falling onto the grass, staring up at the floodlights.
5–3.
At Anfield.
A statement.
Francesco re-emerged from the bench area, clapping his teammates, pulling them into embraces. Sweat-soaked, exhausted, smiling.
They had survived the storm.
They had embraced the chaos.
And they had won.
As the away end sang deep into the Liverpool night, one truth settled over the pitch, undeniable and heavy with meaning.
______________________________________________
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: 36
Goal: 57
Assist: 3
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
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