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Outside, the afternoon sun hung high, casting long shadows across the training ground. Francesco paused for a moment before heading to the car, breathing in the air, listening to the distant sounds of balls being kicked, voices calling out.
Francesco paused for a moment before heading to the car, breathing in the air, listening to the distant sounds of balls being kicked, voices calling out.
Then life moved on.
It always did.
The days that followed slipped by with a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial in its steadiness. Training, recovery, light sessions that gradually grew sharper. Wenger kept his word, and Francesco kept his. No extra reps. No unnecessary sprints. No quiet defiance of instructions masked as professionalism.
He trained normally.
And with every session, his body answered back a little more clearly.
The second day felt easier than the first. The third felt familiar. By the time the weekend approached, the lingering memory of fever had dulled into something distant, like a bad dream you remembered without emotion.
On the evening of 11 March 2017, the routine shifted again.
Matchday.
FA Cup.
Sixth round.
Lincoln City.
The team bus idled quietly outside the training ground as players filtered out, duffle bags slung over shoulders, headphones already in place for some, conversations flowing easily for others. The sky hung low and grey, not threatening rain, just heavy with that particular English anticipation that always seemed to accompany cup football.
Francesco climbed aboard midway down the bus, nodding at familiar faces as he passed. He wasn't starting tonight. He knew that. Wenger had told him already, plainly and without hesitation.
Bench.
Minutes later, maybe. Or not at all.
Either way, it was part of the plan.
He took his seat near the back, dropping his bag at his feet. Across the aisle, Ramsey looked up from his phone.
"Big day," Ramsey said.
"Cup nights always are," Francesco replied.
Ahead of them, Giroud sat upright, focused, hands folded loosely in his lap. Santi Cazorla laughed softly at something Oxlade-Chamberlain said, his presence calm and grounding despite not starting. Wenger sat near the front with the coaching staff, glasses perched low, reviewing notes he likely knew by heart already.
The bus pulled away smoothly, London sliding past the windows in muted colour and motion.
The Emirates Stadium rose out of the city like a familiar monument, lights already glowing against the darkening sky. As the bus rolled into the underground parking area, a quiet shift moved through the squad. Headphones came off. Conversations softened. Focus sharpened.
This wasn't training.
This was real again.
They filed off the bus and into the stadium tunnels, footsteps echoing faintly against concrete walls lined with Arsenal history. The dressing room door swung open, and the space greeted them with its unmistakable energy.
Prepared.
Waiting.
Francesco moved to his locker automatically, setting his bag down and pulling out his training kit. Around him, the room filled quickly with movement and sound. Shirts rustled. Boots clacked against the floor. Someone turned the music on low.
They changed quickly, efficiently, slipping into warm-up mode without ceremony.
When they stepped out onto the pitch for warm-ups, the Emirates greeted them with a rising murmur. The stands weren't full yet, but the noise carried weight. Flags waved. Scarves fluttered. A cup night hum vibrated through the cold air.
Francesco jogged lightly along the touchline with the substitutes, feeling the turf beneath his boots. The pitch looked perfect under the floodlights, grass trimmed short, lines crisp and bright.
He stretched, passed a ball with Ramsey, took a few gentle touches. His body felt ready that loose, responsive, alive.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
After warm-ups, they headed back inside, breath visible now in short clouds as they crossed the pitch. Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere shifted again.
This was the moment.
They peeled off training tops, changed into match kits. Red and white pulled on carefully. Shin pads adjusted. Socks tugged into place. Boots tightened one final time.
Wenger stood at the front of the room when everyone was settled.
Silence came easily.
"This is the FA Cup," Wenger began calmly. "Respect the competition. Respect the opponent. But above all, trust yourselves."
He moved through the formation clearly, deliberately.
"We play 4-2-3-1," he said. "Ospina in goal."
Ospina nodded once, focused.
"Defence," Wenger continued, pointing subtly. "From left to right: Andrew Robertson. Shkodran Mustafi. Rob Holding. Hector Bellerín."
Each name landed with certainty. Robertson rolled his shoulders. Mustafi sat still, eyes forward. Holding breathed deeply. Bellerín bounced lightly on his toes.
"Double pivot," Wenger said. "Oxlade-Chamberlain and Elneny."
Ox nodded. Elneny clasped his hands, calm and ready.
"Central midfielder and captain," Wenger added, turning slightly. "Santi Cazorla."
Santi stood briefly, acknowledging it with a soft smile. The room felt steadier for it.
"Wings," Wenger said. "Alex Iwobi on the left. Serge Gnabry on the right."
Both nodded, eyes sharp.
"Striker," Wenger finished. "Olivier Giroud."
Giroud stood, adjusted his sleeves, composed.
Wenger paused, letting it sink in.
"Substitutes," he said next. "Cech. Monreal. Koscielny. Xhaka. Ramsey. Sánchez. Francesco."
Francesco felt the familiar click in his chest that not disappointment, not frustration. Just readiness. He met Wenger's gaze briefly, receiving a small nod in return.
"You may be needed," Wenger said evenly. "Stay ready."
Always.
The starting eleven rose together, forming a tight group as they headed toward the tunnel. The substitutes followed more slowly, peeling off toward the bench area with Wenger and the coaching staff.
Francesco took his seat on the bench, pulling his jacket tighter against the cold. He watched as the tunnel filled with players, red shirts and white sleeves lining up beneath the stadium lights.
The crowd noise swelled.
The referee's whistle echoed faintly.
As the teams emerged onto the pitch, Francesco leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes tracking every movement.
This was where he belonged.
Whether on the pitch or waiting for his moment, he was part of it again.
The referee glanced at his watch, raised the whistle to his lips, and the sound cut cleanly through the night air.
The match began.
From the very first touch, the difference in level was obvious which not in arrogance, not in disrespect, but in control. Arsenal didn't rush. They didn't surge forward recklessly. They settled, passed, shaped the game into something that belonged to them.
Ospina rolled the ball out to Mustafi, who took a touch and slid it calmly to Holding. Lincoln City retreated immediately, dropping into two tight lines just beyond the halfway line, bodies compact, arms tucked in, eyes alert. They knew what this was going to be. They'd known it all week.
Arsenal circulated the ball patiently, side to side, front to back. Bellerín pushed high on the right, Robertson mirroring him on the left, stretching the pitch until Lincoln's defensive block began to creak under the strain.
On the bench, Francesco leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes following every pass. He felt the rhythm instantly. This wasn't frantic. This was methodical. The kind of dominance that didn't need to shout.
Ox and Elneny sat deep, always available, always offering an angle. Cazorla drifted between lines like a thought half-formed, turning away from pressure with that familiar elegance that seemed immune to time or injury. Every touch calmed the game further.
Lincoln tried to press once, early. One of their forwards sprinted toward Mustafi, arms pumping, determination clear. Mustafi waited until the last possible second, then slid the ball past him into Elneny's feet. The press died right there, momentum spent.
From the bench, Wenger watched without expression, arms folded, glasses catching the light. This was exactly what he'd asked for.
The Emirates settled into a steady hum, the crowd sensing it too. Not nervous. Not restless. Just watching something unfold at its own pace.
The first chance came almost without warning. A sharp switch of play from Cazorla to Robertson caught Lincoln shifting late. Robertson took one touch, looked up, and whipped a low cross toward the near post. Giroud darted across his marker, stretching, but the ball skimmed just past his boot and rolled harmlessly wide.
Applause rippled around the stadium.
Encouragement.
Nine minutes in, Arsenal struck.
It started with patience again. Holding to Mustafi. Mustafi to Elneny. Elneny back to Ox, who took a touch forward, drawing a defender before releasing the ball to Bellerín sprinting down the right.
Bellerín's pace forced Lincoln back instantly. He didn't cross early. He waited. Gnabry drifted inward, slipping between full-back and centre-half, unseen for half a second.
That was all it took.
Bellerín slid the ball into Giroud's feet just inside the box. Giroud took it with his back to goal, one defender tight against him, another closing fast. He didn't turn. He didn't force it.
He laid it off, perfectly weighted, into the path of Gnabry.
Gnabry didn't hesitate.
He struck through the ball cleanly, low and precise, sending it skidding past the goalkeeper's outstretched hand and into the bottom corner.
For a fraction of a second, the Emirates inhaled.
Then it exploded.
Gnabry wheeled away, arms spread, face lit with pure joy as Giroud wrapped him in a hug. Bellerín arrived a heartbeat later, shouting something lost beneath the roar.
On the bench, Francesco exhaled sharply, a grin tugging at his mouth. He clapped instinctively, feeling that familiar surge of shared triumph even from the sidelines.
1–0.
The goal didn't change Arsenal's approach. If anything, it deepened it. They didn't push recklessly for a second. They trusted the process.
Lincoln tried to respond with a quick counter a few minutes later, a hopeful ball launched toward their lone striker. Mustafi read it early, stepping across to intercept, chesting the ball down before passing calmly back to Ospina. The threat evaporated before it ever existed.
From that moment on, it was one-way traffic.
Arsenal's passing grew sharper, quicker. Cazorla dictated tempo like a conductor, raising and lowering it with subtle shifts of body and weight. Iwobi cut inside from the left, combining with Robertson in tight triangles that pulled Lincoln's right side out of shape again and again.
A shot from Ox flew just over the bar.
Another from Iwobi forced a save, the goalkeeper pushing it wide at full stretch.
Four shots on target before the twenty-minute mark.
Lincoln's defenders began to look weary, glancing at one another between stoppages, hands on hips, chests heaving.
At the twenty-first minute, Arsenal doubled their lead.
This one came from the left.
Robertson surged forward, timing his run perfectly as Iwobi drew two defenders inside. Cazorla spotted it immediately, sliding a pass into the space ahead of Robertson with surgical precision.
Robertson didn't overthink it. He delivered early, a driven cross arcing toward the six-yard box.
Giroud was already there.
He rose above his marker with that familiar, almost effortless power, neck muscles tensing as he met the ball cleanly. The header flew downward, bouncing once before nestling into the back of the net.
2–0.
Giroud landed, fists clenched, roaring toward the crowd as teammates piled in around him. Robertson punched the air, eyes shining.
On the bench, Wenger allowed himself the faintest nod.
Francesco leaned back for a moment, breathing it in. This was control. This was authority. The kind of football that made a game feel settled long before the scoreline said so.
Lincoln's response was brave, if nothing else. They pressed higher for a brief spell, trying to disrupt Arsenal's rhythm, trying to turn effort into opportunity. One of their midfielders managed a speculative shot from distance, the ball sailing high and wide, never troubling Ospina.
That was it.
Their only attempt.
The rest of the half unfolded like a lesson in patience.
Arsenal kept the ball. They recycled possession without panic, drawing Lincoln out inch by inch, then slipping through the spaces left behind. Six shots total now. Four on target. Each one chipped away at Lincoln's resolve.
Gnabry nearly had a second after a clever flick from Giroud, his shot saved low. Iwobi curled one just wide after cutting inside onto his right foot.
Every time Lincoln won the ball, Arsenal swallowed them whole within seconds.
On the touchline, Wenger gestured occasionally with small corrections, reminders. Nothing dramatic. He didn't need to shout.
The third goal came at the thirty-ninth minute, and it felt inevitable.
Cazorla collected the ball deep in midfield, turned away from pressure with that signature swivel, and lifted his head. Iwobi was already moving, drifting into the half-space on the left, ghosting between defenders who were too tired to track him properly.
The pass was perfect. Weighted, timed, delivered into Iwobi's stride.
Iwobi took one touch inside the box and struck with composure beyond his years, placing the ball into the far corner before the goalkeeper could set his feet.
3–0.
The Emirates rose again, louder this time, sensing the tie slipping definitively away from the visitors. Iwobi was swallowed by teammates, laughter and shouts mingling as they jogged back into position.
On the bench, Francesco felt something loosen in his chest. Relief. Satisfaction. Pride. This was his team, even from here.
The remaining minutes of the half passed without drama. Arsenal continued to dominate possession, moving the ball with confidence and intelligence. Lincoln defended deeper now, damage limitation their only goal.
When the referee finally blew the whistle for halftime, the sound felt almost gentle.
Players turned toward the tunnel, expressions composed, focused. No celebrations yet. Just work done, more to come.
Francesco stood as the team passed, offering quick words, claps on shoulders. Giroud met his eyes briefly, nodding once. Gnabry grinned.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was calm but alert. Players took their seats, water bottles passed around, shirts tugged and adjusted. Wenger stood at the centre, waiting for the room to settle.
"This is good," he said simply when it did. "But do not lose discipline."
He spoke about patience. About not conceding silly fouls. About maintaining tempo. He reminded them that cup matches could turn if respect slipped even for a moment.
Francesco listened intently from the bench area, absorbing every word. He knew his moment might come later. Or it might not.
Either way, he was ready.
The second half began the way the first had ended.
With Arsenal in control.
The whistle blew, sharp and clean, and Lincoln kicked off, but the ball barely felt theirs before it was reclaimed. Elneny stepped in early, nudging the ball sideways to Oxlade-Chamberlain, who cushioned it forward with ease. The shape snapped back into place immediately, red shirts spreading across the pitch like they'd never left it.
From the bench, Francesco adjusted his posture, leaning forward again, elbows resting on his thighs. He'd barely sat back down after halftime before the rhythm returned, familiar and comforting. There was no sense of a team easing off because the scoreline allowed it. If anything, Arsenal looked sharper, more purposeful, as if Wenger's calm reminder had settled something deeper.
Lincoln dropped even further back now.
Their defensive block was narrower, more compact than before, a clear attempt to limit damage rather than chase miracles. Two banks of players stood almost on top of each other, lines blurring into one another just outside their own box. Every Arsenal touch was met with bodies, arms out, legs stabbing, desperate to slow the tide.
But slowing it wasn't stopping it.
The ball moved quicker than legs could follow. One-touch passes zipped between Cazorla, Ox, and Elneny. Robertson and Bellerín continued to provide width, forcing Lincoln's full-backs into impossible decisions that stay narrow and concede space wide, or step out and leave gaps inside.
Either way, Arsenal found a way through.
A chance came early in the half when Gnabry cut in from the right, exchanged a quick one-two with Giroud, and unleashed a curling effort that kissed the outside of the post. The crowd groaned, then applauded. Encouragement again. Appreciation for intent.
Lincoln tried to respond with a rare burst forward, a hopeful dribble down the flank, but Robertson tracked back with ease, shepherding the ball out for a throw-in near the corner flag. He jogged back into position without fuss, already scanning the field.
The match settled into something almost serene.
Arsenal passed.
Lincoln chased.
Time ticked.
At the fifty-third minute, the moment arrived.
Cazorla picked up the ball centrally, about ten yards inside Lincoln's half. He turned smoothly, slipping past the first challenge with a drop of the shoulder that sent his marker the wrong way. A second defender stepped in, late and panicked, clipping Cazorla's ankle as he tried to recover.
Santi went down immediately, rolling once before sitting up, palms raised in calm appeal.
The whistle blew.
The foul was clear.
The location even clearer.
Twenty-six yards out.
Right of centre.
The Emirates stirred.
Francesco felt it before he saw it. That collective intake of breath, that subtle shift in energy that told you something might be coming. He sat up straighter, eyes locked on the scene unfolding.
Cazorla stood and brushed grass from his socks, expression unreadable. Giroud joined him almost immediately, placing the ball carefully, then stepping back to assess the angle. They stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment, two very different silhouettes over the same opportunity.
The Lincoln goalkeeper barked instructions, setting his wall. Four players shuffled into position, arms linked, feet adjusting inch by inch. He took a step to his left, then another, squinting at the gap between post and wall.
Cazorla took three steps back.
Giroud took two.
For a heartbeat, it looked like Giroud might hit it as his posture suggested power, height, a shot meant to rise and dip.
Then, subtly, imperceptibly to most, Cazorla shifted his weight.
The whistle sounded.
Cazorla ran up.
He struck the ball cleanly with his left foot, not with brute force, but with precision. The ball lifted, arced, bending beautifully around the edge of the wall. It dipped late, wickedly, swerving just enough to wrong-foot the goalkeeper.
The keeper leapt, arm outstretched, fingertips grazing nothing but air.
The net rippled.
4–0.
For a split second, the stadium was silent that stunned by the sheer cleanliness of it.
Then the noise arrived, rolling down from the stands in waves, thunderous and full. Cazorla turned away calmly, arms raised just enough to acknowledge the crowd, a soft smile breaking across his face as teammates rushed toward him.
Giroud laughed, wrapping him in a hug, shaking his head in disbelief even though he'd seen it a hundred times before.
On the bench, Francesco was on his feet without realising it, clapping hard, heart thudding. He felt a rush of admiration, not just for the goal, but for the way it had been taken. No showmanship. No excess. Just execution.
Wenger allowed himself a brief glance upward, then returned his eyes to the pitch, already thinking ahead.
Lincoln's shoulders sagged.
You could see it now.
The belief that had carried them this far in the competition with the romance of the cup, the defiance had finally met its limit. They still ran. They still challenged. But the spark had dulled.
Arsenal smelled it.
They pressed just a little higher. Passed just a little sharper. The spaces widened.
At the sixty-sixth minute, the fifth goal came.
This one didn't arrive with finesse.
It arrived with violence.
The move began with Oxlade-Chamberlain bursting forward through midfield, carrying the ball with that powerful, gliding stride of his. A Lincoln midfielder stepped out to meet him, but Ox rode the challenge, shoulder to shoulder, keeping his balance with ease.
He looked up.
Elneny was there.
Just outside the box.
Unmarked.
Ox slid the ball sideways into his path without breaking stride.
Elneny didn't take a touch.
He hit it.
The strike was pure. The ball flew off his foot like it had been launched, rising fast, swerving slightly, then dipping violently toward the top corner. The goalkeeper barely reacted, frozen in place as the net bulged again.
5–0.
Elneny stood there for a moment, almost surprised, before a grin split his face and his teammates crashed into him. Ox punched the air, shouting something lost in the roar of the crowd.
On the bench, Wenger stood.
This was the signal.
He turned and beckoned.
Francesco felt it instantly. His heart rate jumped, adrenaline surging through him like electricity. He rose to his feet as Wenger called his name, Ramsey's, Xhaka's.
"Francesco," Wenger said calmly. "Be ready."
He already was.
Giroud jogged toward the touchline, applauded by the crowd. Cazorla followed, clapping above his head, soaking in the appreciation. Elneny came off last, exchanging a brief embrace with Ox before heading toward the bench.
At the same moment, the Lincoln City manager signalled his own changes with three at once. Defenders. Fresh legs meant to slow the bleeding, to hold the line, to stop the score from climbing further.
Francesco pulled off his jacket, the cold air biting his arms as he stepped closer to the sideline. He took a few light jogs, bounced on his toes, stretched his calves. His breath came steady, controlled.
Wenger leaned in briefly as the fourth official raised the board.
"Keep it simple," he said. "Move between the lines. Enjoy it."
Francesco nodded.
Then he stepped onto the pitch.
The noise washed over him immediately, a wall of sound that vibrated in his chest. The grass felt perfect beneath his boots, springy and alive. He took his position, glancing around, orienting himself, reading the shape.
Ramsey slotted into midfield, energetic as ever. Xhaka took up a deeper role, calm and composed, already directing traffic with pointed gestures.
The game resumed.
Francesco's first touch was simple with a short pass back to Bellerín, but it felt monumental. The ball met his foot cleanly, familiar, reassuring. He exhaled slowly.
He was back in it.
Arsenal continued to dominate, but now with a slightly different texture. More rotation. More freedom. Francesco drifted into pockets of space, drawing defenders, laying the ball off, moving again.
He felt sharp.
Not reckless.
Balanced.
Lincoln defended deeper still, now almost camped inside their own box, every player behind the ball when Arsenal attacked. Their substitutions had added numbers, but not resistance.
A chance fell to Ramsey after a clever exchange with Francesco, his shot blocked at the last second. Another move saw Xhaka clip a beautiful diagonal toward Gnabry, whose volley flashed just wide.
Time rolled on.
The crowd remained loud but relaxed, enjoying the spectacle, singing without urgency. This was celebration now, not tension.
Francesco chased a loose ball near the corner flag, pressing without desperation, forcing a hurried clearance. He jogged back into position, chest rising and falling steadily, body responding perfectly.
No heaviness.
No warning signs.
Just football.
As the clock ticked past the seventy-fifth minute, Wenger watched closely, satisfied. This was exactly what he'd wanted that not just the goals, but the control, the discipline, the response after illness and rotation.
Francesco glanced toward the bench briefly, catching Wenger's eye. There was no instruction now. No need.
Just trust.
The match continued to flow, Arsenal probing, Lincoln holding on, the scoreline unchanged but the dominance unquestioned.
The dominance never wavered.
If anything, it deepened.
With every minute that passed, Arsenal's control became quieter, heavier, the kind that settled into the bones of a match and stayed there. Lincoln defended with courage, bodies still flying into challenges, voices still calling to one another, but now it felt more like resistance against the inevitable than belief in a turnaround.
Francesco felt it too.
He moved through the game with a calm that surprised even him. Not adrenaline-fuelled chaos, not the restless urge to prove something in every touch. Instead, he played like someone who trusted the moment would come if he stayed connected to the rhythm.
He drifted laterally between the lines, sometimes dropping closer to Xhaka and Ramsey, sometimes pushing higher to pin a defender back. Each movement was measured, purposeful. He checked his shoulders constantly, scanning, adjusting.
Ramsey found him often.
Short passes at first. Safe ones. Little exchanges that kept the ball alive and Lincoln running.
"Time," Ramsey called once, tapping his wrist.
Francesco let the ball roll across his body, turned, and recycled possession calmly. No rush. No need.
The Emirates was in full voice now, but not frantic. Songs rolled around the stadium in long, looping waves. Supporters leaned back in their seats, arms around shoulders, drinks in hand, watching something close to a procession unfold.
This was joy without anxiety.
Arsenal probed again down the right. Bellerín overlapped, received, crossed low. A defender cut it out at the near post. The clearance fell to Xhaka, who struck it first time. The shot flew high, dipping late, forcing the goalkeeper into a scrambling save.
Applause followed.
Then a chant started.
Francesco's name.
At first, it was scattered, pockets of sound forming here and there. Then it grew, stitched together by recognition and anticipation.
"Fran-ces-co! Fran-ces-co!"
He heard it clearly.
It didn't overwhelm him. It grounded him.
He pressed on, heart steady, legs light.
At the seventy-ninth minute, the moment arrived.
It began, as so many of Arsenal's goals that night had, with patience.
Xhaka recycled possession from deep, switching play from left to right. Holding stepped forward confidently, unpressured, and slid the ball into Ramsey's feet just inside Lincoln's half. Ramsey turned, head up immediately, scanning.
Francesco was already moving.
He drifted away from his marker, pulling slightly left, then suddenly darted inside, accelerating into the space Ramsey's body position invited. The defender reacted late, half a step behind.
Ramsey didn't hesitate.
He threaded the pass.
It wasn't flashy. It didn't split the defence with violence. It was perfectly weighted, slipped into Francesco's stride just outside the box, slightly right of centre.
Time slowed.
Francesco took one touch to set himself, opening his body. The defender lunged, desperate. The goalkeeper stepped forward, narrowing the angle.
Francesco didn't blast it.
He placed it.
A controlled, precise strike with the inside of his foot, guiding the ball low and across the keeper toward the far corner. The shot skimmed the grass, kissed the inside of the post, and rolled into the net.
For a fraction of a second, there was disbelief.
Then the Emirates erupted.
The sound hit him like a wave, crashing into his chest, his ears, his skin. Francesco turned instinctively, arms spreading slightly, face breaking into a grin he couldn't suppress.
Ramsey was on him first, wrapping him in a fierce embrace, shouting something joyful and incoherent. Bellerín arrived next, then Gnabry, then Xhaka, hands on Francesco's head, shoulders, back.
On the bench, Wenger allowed himself something close to a smile.
6–0.
But it felt like the night had tipped fully into celebration now.
Francesco jogged back toward the centre circle, breathing hard but steady, heart racing with that pure, uncomplicated thrill that only a goal could bring. He glanced toward the stands briefly, caught sight of supporters on their feet, scarves raised, faces lit with delight.
He felt whole.
The restart came and went almost unnoticed beneath the noise. Lincoln tried to regroup, to settle themselves, but their legs were heavy now, minds dulled by the scoreline and the relentless movement of red shirts around them.
Arsenal didn't slow.
They didn't show mercy in the cruel sense, but they didn't patronise either. They kept playing their football, kept respecting the game by doing it properly.
At the eighty-seventh minute, something happened that shifted the noise again, this time into disbelief.
The move started deep.
Holding collected the ball just inside his own half, unpressured. He took a touch, looked up, and carried it forward a few steps. No one closed him down. Lincoln's midfield sat off, wary, conserving energy that wasn't there anymore.
Holding slid the ball sideways to Xhaka.
Xhaka took one touch to steady himself.
Then another.
He looked up.
And then he hit it.
From outside the box.
A thunderous strike.
The ball flew off his left foot with terrifying speed, rising, swerving, dipping all at once. The goalkeeper reacted late, diving full stretch, fingertips straining.
It didn't matter.
The shot screamed into the top corner, rattling the net violently.
For a moment, the stadium froze.
Then it exploded.
Shock, laughter, disbelief, pure noise.
Xhaka stood still for a heartbeat, eyes wide, then turned away with a grin that mixed satisfaction and disbelief. Holding sprinted toward him, arms out, laughing openly now. Teammates poured in from everywhere, the celebration looser, lighter, joyous.
7–0.
On the bench, players shook their heads, laughing, clapping. Even the coaching staff couldn't hide their reactions now.
Francesco jogged back into position, chest heaving, smiling to himself. He glanced at Xhaka as they passed each other.
"Ridiculous," Francesco said.
Xhaka laughed. "I know."
Lincoln restarted again, but the match had long since slipped beyond competition. They passed the ball sideways, then back, then launched it forward aimlessly, hoping only to see the clock move.
The fourth official raised his board near the touchline.
Three minutes.
A small, almost unnecessary gesture at this point, but procedure demanded it.
The crowd responded with cheers, more songs, a sense of indulgence. No one wanted it to end just yet, not because of tension, but because nights like this were rare gifts.
Francesco continued to move, still pressing, still offering angles. He tracked back once, stealing the ball cleanly and laying it off to Ramsey before jogging forward again.
His body felt perfect.
Strong.
Alive.
As the added time ticked away, Arsenal slowed naturally, not deliberately. Passes became a touch longer, runs a fraction less explosive. The game eased into its final breaths.
The referee glanced at his watch.
Then again.
And then he raised the whistle to his lips.
The sound cut through the air, clear and final.
Full time.
Arsenal 7.
Lincoln City 0.
The Emirates roared one last time, a standing ovation rolling across the stadium. Players embraced, hands on heads, arms around shoulders. Respect was shown to Lincoln's players too with handshakes, nods, as words exchanged quietly.
______________________________________________
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: 38
Goal: 60
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
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