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And the season was still long, still demanding that stretched ahead of them, filled with possibilities that felt just a little more real after a night like this.
The days that followed that night against City didn't rush.
They flowed.
In the immediate aftermath there was recovery first, always recovery. Ice baths, light jogs, stretching sessions where conversations were half-serious, half-distracted. Francesco felt the match settle into his body the way big games always did: a dull ache in the thighs, a tightness along the lower back, a pleasant soreness that wasn't pain so much as proof. Proof that he'd given everything.
London moved on outside the training ground gates, indifferent and constant. Traffic still snarled. Rain still threatened. Fans still lingered near fences, hopeful for a glimpse, a wave, a signature.
Inside Colney, though, the mood was different.
Quiet confidence.
Not arrogance. Never that. Wenger never allowed it. But there was a steadiness now, a sense that this squad understood itself. They knew who they were. They knew what they could do.
Training sessions sharpened rather than drained them. Patterns clicked faster. Pressing drills felt instinctive. The ball moved with purpose. Francesco often found himself dropping into spaces without needing to be told, Ozil already there, already scanning, already seeing the pass before the thought had fully formed.
The first Premier League match of that stretch came quickly.
West Ham United at the Emirates.
A night that felt lighter on paper but still demanded focus. Wenger rotated carefully, managed minutes, but the intent was clear from the opening whistle. Arsenal pressed high, stretched the pitch, played with a freedom that only comes when belief is reinforced rather than tested.
Özil opened the scoring with a finish so casual it looked improvised, ghosting into the box and side-footing past the keeper as if it were a training drill. The stadium exhaled into cheers rather than exploding with confidence again, expectation.
Francesco added the second.
A striker's goal. Clean. Decisive. No excess.
Walcott made it three with raw pace, bursting beyond his marker and finishing at the near post. And when Francesco was withdrawn midway through the second half from Wenger mindful, protective as Giroud came on and made it four, powering a header home that sent the bench leaping to its feet.
4–0.
Professional. Efficient.
Francesco watched the final minutes from the sideline, arms folded inside his jacket, heart rate finally slowing. He clapped the fans at full time, exchanged nods with teammates, filed the performance away. There was satisfaction, yes but also restraint.
Because Selhurst Park was next.
And Selhurst Park never gave you anything for free.
The away fixture against Crystal Palace was louder, tighter, more chaotic. The stands pressed in close, the noise immediate and sharp. Palace played with energy, with edge, forcing Arsenal to stay switched on.
Francesco struck first, finishing a flowing move that cut through Palace's midfield. Alexis followed with a brace with one ruthless, one outrageous as each goal met with a mix of groans and grudging respect from the home crowd.
Palace fought back. Townsend struck with venom. Cabaye followed with precision. The score tightened. The atmosphere crackled.
Then Wenger turned to the bench.
Gnabry.
Fresh legs. Direct intent.
The young winger came on and sealed it late, slotting home Arsenal's fourth to quiet Selhurst Park and release the tension that had coiled tight around the away end.
4–2.
Six points. Eight goals. Momentum intact.
And then, suddenly, everything narrowed.
April 12th, 2017.
The date sat heavy in the calendar.
UEFA Champions League. Quarter-final. First leg.
Real Madrid.
The days leading up to it felt different. Training sessions shortened but sharpened. Tactical meetings grew longer. Wenger spoke more about spacing than intensity, more about patience than passion. He trusted the latter would take care of itself.
Francesco felt it in the air the moment they boarded the team bus on matchday.
There was no music blaring. No jokes shouted across the aisle. Just quiet conversations, headphones on, eyes focused. The Emirates loomed closer through the windows as the bus rolled through familiar streets now transformed by scarves, flags, and anticipation.
When they arrived, the stadium rose up like a monument.
Floodlights already warming. Staff moving with purpose. Security tight but unobtrusive.
The bus doors opened.
One by one, they stepped out.
Francesco felt the ground beneath his boots, the familiar concrete underfoot as he adjusted the strap of his bag. Cameras flashed. Fans shouted names. He kept walking, face composed, heart steady.
Inside, straight to the dressing room.
The ritual resumed.
Training kits on. Boots changed. Tape applied. The room hummed with preparation rather than noise. Conversations were brief, practical. Water bottles lined up neatly.
They headed out for the warm-up together.
The pitch greeted them in perfect condition, emerald under the lights. The stands were filling fast now, the noise rising in waves as Arsenal players emerged. Applause rolled around the stadium, warm and expectant.
Francesco jogged lightly, feeling the grass beneath him, testing his stride. Passing drills followed. Short sprints. Finishing patterns. He struck the ball cleanly, the sound crisp, satisfying.
Real Madrid were out too.
White shirts. Calm movements. Champions by posture alone.
Francesco clocked familiar faces with Ronaldo stretching, Modrić gliding, Ramos already intense. The mutual awareness settled in without words.
This was real.
Warm-up finished, they jogged back inside.
Back to the dressing room.
The air changed.
Match kits awaited them now.
Red and white. Clean. Symbolic.
Francesco pulled his shirt on slowly, feeling the weight of it that not physical, but emotional. The captain's armband rested on the bench beside him. He picked it up, ran his fingers over it once, then slid it into place.
Wenger stood when everyone was seated.
He didn't raise his voice.
He never needed to.
"We play our football," he said simply. "With intelligence. With courage. Without fear."
He moved to the tactics board.
"4-3-3," he continued. "Petr, you organize from the back."
Cech nodded once.
"Nacho. Virgil. Laurent. Hector. Compact. Brave."
Van Dijk's expression didn't change. Koscielny adjusted his socks. Bellerín bounced lightly on his toes.
"N'Golo," Wenger said, turning. "You protect. You connect."
Kanté smiled softly, already locked in.
"Mesut. Granit. Control the rhythm."
Özil's eyes flicked up. Xhaka clenched his jaw, focused.
"Alexis. Theo. Stretch them. Attack the spaces."
Both nodded.
"And Francesco," Wenger said last, voice steady. "You lead. You finish. You believe."
The substitutions were listed calmly. Options. Depth.
Then silence.
Wenger looked at them all.
"Enjoy it," he said. "You have earned this."
The knock came.
Time.
They stood.
The walk to the tunnel was slow, deliberate. Boots echoed. Breaths steadied.
Inside the tunnel, they lined up behind the referees.
Real Madrid stood beside them.
White against red.
Francesco felt Sergio Ramos step into position next to him, presence unmistakable. The Spaniard glanced sideways, a faint smirk playing at his lips.
"Big night," Ramos said quietly.
Francesco met his gaze. "That's why we're here."
No animosity. Just truth.
The signal came.
They walked.
Out of the tunnel and into the night.
The roar hit them like a wall.
The Emirates was alive.
Lights blazed. Flags waved. Noise cascaded from every tier.
They lined up.
The Champions League anthem began.
That familiar, spine-raising chorus filled the stadium, vibrating through chest and bone alike. Francesco stood tall, eyes forward, the sound washing over him, grounding him.
When it ended, handshakes followed. Respect exchanged. Photographs taken.
Then the captains stepped forward.
Francesco and Ramos met the referee at the center circle.
The coin flipped.
Francesco chose right.
Arsenal get the kicked off.
Then the whistle cut through the night.
Sharp. Clean. Unforgiving.
And suddenly, it was no longer ceremony or buildup or anticipation.
It was football.
Real Madrid moved first, the ball rolled backward with casual confidence, and almost immediately the shape of the match revealed itself. They didn't ease into it. They never did. The white shirts flowed forward like a tide that had rehearsed this moment a thousand times before.
BBC.
Bale. Benzema. Cristiano.
It wasn't just a front three, but it was a statement. Pace, power, intelligence, inevitability.
Gareth Bale surged down Arsenal's right flank within the opening minute, long strides eating up space as Monreal matched him step for step, shoulders brushing, both testing each other's limits without a word exchanged. Benzema drifted centrally, never static, pulling Van Dijk a step wider than he wanted to go. Cristiano lingered on the left, coiled, dangerous even when he seemed uninvolved.
The first attack came fast.
Marcelo stepped forward, receiving from Kroos, and clipped a diagonal ball toward the far post. Benzema rose. Cech came. Gloves met ball. The Emirates inhaled, then exhaled together.
Message delivered.
Real Madrid were here to impose themselves.
Arsenal responded not with panic, but with structure.
Özil dropped deeper, almost alongside Xhaka at times, demanding the ball under pressure. Kanté buzzed between white shirts like static electricity, snapping into tackles, poking possession loose, immediately looking forward. Xhaka stayed disciplined, anchoring the midfield triangle, switching play when Madrid overloaded one side.
The midfield battle ignited quickly.
Kroos dictated tempo with that effortless glide, passing lanes opening where none seemed to exist. Modrić danced between lines, twisting his body to evade pressure, drawing fouls when needed. Casemiro hovered behind them, ready to break rhythm, to foul, to disrupt.
Arsenal didn't shy away.
Kanté chased everything. Özil threaded passes that bypassed two men at once. Xhaka stood tall, intercepting, recycling, breathing calm into moments that threatened to spiral.
Ahead of them, Francesco led the line with intent.
He didn't stay central. He couldn't afford to.
Ramos watched him closely, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. Pepe wasn't there tonight as Nacho Fernández partnered Ramos instead, but the aggression remained the same. Carvajal stayed tight to Sanchez, wary of pace. Marcelo pushed high, always high, leaving space behind him that Walcott eyed like a hunter.
The early exchanges were breathless.
Walcott burst down the right in the fifth minute, Marcelo forced into a sliding tackle that sent the ball spinning out for a throw. Sanchez tried his luck from distance minutes later, the shot curling just wide as Navas tracked it calmly.
Then Madrid struck back.
Cristiano received the ball wide, isolated against Bellerin. One touch. Two. A feint. He cut inside and unleashed a shot that swerved viciously. Cech reacted instinctively, palms stinging as he pushed it away.
The crowd roared his name.
Petr Cech stood, adjusted his gloves, nodded once.
Still level. Still alive.
The tempo didn't drop.
If anything, it sharpened.
Arsenal began to settle, to trust their patterns. Short passes replaced clearances. Calm replaced chaos. Wenger's influence became visible not in volume, but in patience.
And then, in the 17th minute, it happened.
The kind of moment teams spend entire seasons chasing.
It started innocuously.
Kanté won a second ball near the center circle, muscling Casemiro off it just enough to poke possession toward Xhaka. One touch. Head up. Switch.
The ball found Özil drifting into space between Kroos and Modrić.
Madrid hesitated.
That was all Mesut needed.
Özil took a touch forward, drawing Ramos a step out of the defensive line. Francesco read it instantly. He didn't sprint. He curved his run, subtle, intelligent, dragging Nacho with him just long enough to open a channel.
Özil slid the pass through.
Perfect weight. Perfect timing.
Francesco met it in stride.
Navas came off his line, arms wide, body low. Ramos lunged from the side.
Francesco didn't panic.
One touch to set. One touch to finish.
He guided the ball past Navas' outstretched leg, into the corner of the net.
For a split second, the stadium went silent.
Then it exploded.
The Emirates erupted into pure sound, red and white scarves thrown skyward as Francesco wheeled away, arms outstretched, face lit with something between relief and fury. His teammates swarmed him with Özil first, then Sanchez, then Kanté leaping onto his back.
1–0.
Arsenal.
Ramos stood still, hands on hips, staring at the spot where the ball had crossed the line. Navas retrieved it without expression.
Madrid kicked off again.
They didn't sulk. They never did.
If anything, the goal sharpened them.
The BBC went to work.
Bale tested Bellerín again and again, crossing early, then cutting inside. Benzema dropped deep, linking play, forcing Van Dijk to make decisions. Cristiano prowled, switching sides, seeking mismatches.
In the 23rd minute, Madrid came inches from equalizing. Modrić slipped Benzema through the channel, his shot parried brilliantly by Cech, the rebound flashing across the face of goal before Monreal hacked it clear.
Arsenal weathered it.
They didn't retreat completely, but they were disciplined. Compact. Lines tight. Kanté everywhere.
And when they broke, they broke with intent.
Sanchez drove at Carvajal, nutmegging him once to a roar from the stands. Walcott made a lung-busting run that pulled Marcelo out of position. Francesco dropped deeper, linking play, absorbing contact, buying fouls.
Then, in the 34th minute, Arsenal struck again.
This time, it was ruthless.
Walcott received the ball on the right, back to goal, Marcelo tight behind him. Instead of turning, he laid it off first time to Bellerín, who had surged forward unnoticed.
Bellerín crossed early.
Low. Fast. Dangerous.
Ramos slid. Nacho stretched. Navas hesitated.
Sanchez didn't.
He arrived like a storm, meeting the ball at full pace and slamming it into the net with his left foot from close range. The sound of the strike was almost violent.
2–0.
The Emirates shook.
Sanchez screamed toward the crowd, fists clenched, veins standing out in his neck. Francesco sprinted toward him, dragging him into a hug, shouting something lost in the noise.
Wenger remained still on the touchline, arms folded, eyes burning.
Madrid gathered themselves again.
Two goals down, but not beaten.
Never beaten.
They slowed the game, recycled possession, forced Arsenal to chase. Kroos began to dictate more, spreading play wide, pulling Arsenal's midfield triangle out of shape inch by inch.
The pressure mounted.
Corners. Free kicks. Sustained spells of possession.
Cech commanded his box, punching when needed, catching when possible. Van Dijk won headers. Koscielny threw himself into blocks.
But just before halftime, Madrid found their opening.
It came from the right.
Carvajal pushed high, exchanging passes with Bale, before whipping a cross toward the near post. Benzema dummied it cleverly, dragging Van Dijk with him.
Cristiano arrived.
Timing perfect. Leap inevitable.
He met the ball with his head, snapping his neck to guide it past Cech and into the net.
44th minute.
2–1.
The away end erupted.
Cristiano landed, turned, and stared at the crowd, finger to his lips that not silencing, but provoking.
Arsenal felt the shift immediately.
The confidence wavered just slightly. Madrid pressed harder, sensing vulnerability. Another cross came in. Another scramble. Kanté cleared. Xhaka took a foul and stayed down just long enough to let the clock run.
Then the whistle blew.
Halftime.
Players trudged back toward the tunnel, lungs burning, shirts damp, minds racing.
Inside the dressing room, the noise returned that not from the crowd, but from inside their own heads.
Wenger waited until everyone was seated.
He let the silence sit.
Then he spoke.
"They are dangerous," he said calmly. "But they are not unstoppable."
He pointed to the board.
"We must keep the ball better in the first ten minutes. Slow them. Make them chase."
His eyes found Kanté. "Stay disciplined."
To Özil and Xhaka. "Help each other. No isolation."
Then to Francesco.
"They will push," Wenger said. "Use that. Be patient."
Francesco nodded, sweat dripping from his hair, chest still rising and falling.
Francesco stayed seated for a moment after Wenger finished speaking.
Not because he was tired though his legs burned and his lungs still worked overtime, but because he wanted to lock the feeling in. The weight of the night. The closeness of it. The knowledge that this was balanced on a blade's edge.
Two–one was nothing against Real Madrid.
Everyone in that room knew it.
Boots scraped against the floor as players stood, adjusted shin pads, pulled shirts straight. Someone clapped once, sharp and deliberate which Koscielny, probably. Kanté bounced lightly on his toes, energy somehow still overflowing. Özil sat quietly, eyes distant, already replaying angles and movements that hadn't even happened yet.
Francesco rose last.
He rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, and followed the team back toward the tunnel.
The noise hit them before they even reached the entrance.
The Emirates hadn't cooled. If anything, it had grown louder, more restless, aware that the night was tilting but undecided. The second half waited like a held breath.
The players lined up again.
Across from them, Real Madrid looked different now.
Sharper. Hungrier. Less patient.
Zinedine Zidane stood near the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, expression calm but eyes burning. He spoke briefly to Modrić as the teams took their positions, gesturing forward with two fingers.
Push.
Relentless.
The whistle blew again.
Second half.
Madrid exploded out of the blocks.
There was no probing this time, no testing the water. Kroos immediately pushed higher. Casemiro stepped into Arsenal's half with intent. Modrić took up pockets between the lines, demanding the ball every time it moved forward.
And the BBC, now fully unleashed.
Cristiano drifted central, closer to Benzema's old spaces. Bale hugged the touchline less, cutting inside early, forcing Monreal and Van Dijk into constant communication. Benzema dropped deep, dragging defenders with him, creating lanes for runners.
The pressure came in waves.
A cross from Marcelo in the 47th minute was half-cleared by Koscielny, only for Casemiro to thunder a shot from distance that flew inches over the bar. Moments later, Modrić slipped Cristiano through, his low shot blocked bravely by Cech's outstretched leg.
The away end believed.
You could hear it.
Arsenal, meanwhile, were bending but not breaking.
Wenger's words echoed through their movements. Keep the ball. Slow it down. Make them chase.
Xhaka took responsibility, dropping deeper to receive under pressure, switching play even when the crowd groaned for something more direct. Özil showed for the ball constantly, drawing fouls, buying seconds. Kanté ran himself into the ground, snapping into challenges, intercepting passes that looked destined to open Arsenal up.
But Madrid kept coming.
The 50th minute passed in a blur of white shirts and sharp passes. Arsenal's back line held firm, but the margins were razor-thin now.
And then, just when Madrid seemed closest to breaking them, it happened.
The counter.
It began, as so many decisive Arsenal moments did, with discipline.
Cristiano tried to force a one-two at the edge of the box. Kanté read it, stepped in, and poked the ball loose. It ricocheted once, twice, and landed at Xhaka's feet.
Head up.
Space.
Madrid were high. Too high.
Xhaka didn't hesitate.
He opened his body and drove a diagonal pass forward, slicing through the retreating white shirts. It wasn't flashy, but it was devastating.
Francesco was already moving.
He had peeled off Ramos' shoulder the moment Kanté won the ball, sprinting into the channel left behind by Marcelo's advanced position. Nacho tried to recover, but he was a step slow.
The pass met Francesco perfectly.
First touch forward. Second touch to steady.
Navas rushed out again, closing the angle, shouting something lost in the roar.
Francesco didn't slow.
He slipped the ball past Navas with the outside of his boot, angling it into the far corner before tumbling under Ramos' desperate challenge.
Time slowed.
The ball kissed the inside of the post.
And crossed the line.
53rd minute.
3–1.
The Emirates detonated.
Noise poured down from every tier, raw and unfiltered. Francesco lay on the turf for a heartbeat, staring up at the lights, chest heaving, before leaping to his feet and sprinting toward the corner flag.
He slid on his knees, arms wide, eyes wild.
Xhaka reached him first this time, grabbing him by the shoulders, screaming into his face. Kanté arrived next, then Özil, then half the team piling in as red shirts blurred together.
On the touchline, Wenger finally allowed himself the smallest of clenched fists.
Zidane turned away, jaw tight.
Madrid regrouped quickly.
They had to.
Three–one was dangerous territory, but they were Real Madrid. They didn't collapse. They recalibrated.
Zidane gestured sharply, barking instructions. Kroos dropped a fraction deeper to dictate more cleanly. Modrić pushed even higher, almost as a second number ten. Casemiro stayed central, anchoring against further counters.
And Cristiano… Cristiano smelled blood.
He began drifting left, right, central as he go anywhere that could escape attention. Every time he touched the ball, the crowd held its breath.
In the 60th minute, he came close again. A low cross from Carvajal skidded through the box, evading everyone before Cristiano slid in at the back post, only for Monreal to get just enough on it to divert it wide.
Cech screamed instructions.
Van Dijk barked back.
The tempo became frantic.
Arsenal were still dangerous on the break, but Madrid's control was growing. Kroos and Modrić were orchestrating now, dragging Arsenal's midfield out of shape with quick, sharp exchanges.
The goal, when it came, felt inevitable.
67th minute.
Modrić received the ball just outside the box, back to goal. He rolled his marker, took one touch forward, and lifted his head. Cristiano was already making the run, darting between Van Dijk and Koscielny.
The pass was inch-perfect.
Cristiano met it in stride and struck first time, low and hard across Cech, into the bottom corner.
3–2.
Brace.
The away end exploded again.
Cristiano wheeled away, thumping his chest, eyes blazing. He pointed to the badge, then to the crowd, soaking it in.
Arsenal felt the shift immediately.
The stadium noise sharpened that less celebratory now, more anxious. Madrid pressed harder, belief surging back into every white shirt.
Wenger didn't wait.
He turned to the bench.
72nd minute.
Decisions made.
Sanchez's number went up first. Then Walcott's. Then Özil's.
Giroud. Gnabry. Cazorla.
The crowd reacted with a mix of cheers and murmurs, recognizing the intent even if the shape was about to change.
Francesco jogged toward the touchline as Sanchez embraced him briefly, both men breathing hard, eyes intense.
"Finish it," Sanchez said simply.
Francesco nodded.
The reshuffle took shape quickly.
Giroud moved central, his presence immediate, physical. Francesco drifted left, adjusting his position instinctively, feeling the space differently now. Gnabry took the right, youthful energy and directness ready to test tired legs. Cazorla slotted into midfield, calm and composed, a metronome when things threatened to spiral.
Zidane responded almost instantly.
Bale and Benzema were withdrawn, their work done, replaced by Marco Asensio and James Rodríguez.
Fresh legs. Fresh ideas. No less danger.
Madrid weren't settling for a draw.
Neither were Arsenal.
As the substitutions settled and play resumed, the match entered its most volatile phase as both sides stretched, belief colliding with belief, every touch now carrying consequence.
Francesco glanced once toward the clock and saw that there still plenty of time left.
The game didn't slow after the substitutions.
If anything, it grew sharper.
More desperate.
Both sides understood exactly what the next goal would mean. For Real Madrid, it would be oxygen which proof that the tie was still alive, that the Emirates hadn't swallowed them whole. For Arsenal, it would be a blade to the throat, a statement that this night belonged to them.
The shape had shifted, but the danger hadn't.
Giroud's presence was felt immediately. He planted himself between Ramos and Nacho, broad shoulders squared, arms subtly out, making every aerial ball a fight. He didn't need to score to matter as he just needed to exist, to occupy, to disrupt Madrid's defensive rhythm.
Francesco, now on the left, felt the game differently.
Out wide, the pitch opened up in unfamiliar ways. He could see the runs developing earlier, feel the angles change. Marcelo was still adventurous, but a fraction more cautious now, aware that leaving space behind him could be fatal again. Carvajal tucked in more on the opposite side, wary of Gnabry's pace.
Cazorla was the quiet heartbeat.
Every time Arsenal needed breath, needed calm, the ball found Santi. He took touches that seemed to defy pressure, rolling away from challenges with that low center of gravity, turning danger into rhythm. He didn't rush. He didn't force.
He conducted.
Madrid pushed.
James Rodríguez drifted into half-spaces, looking to shoot from range or slip clever passes into the channels. Asensio was fearless, driving forward with fresh legs, testing Bellerín with directness and speed.
Cristiano remained everywhere.
One moment on the left, exchanging quick passes with Marcelo. The next drifting central, trying to draw Van Dijk out. Then appearing on the right, cutting inside to shoot.
Every time he received the ball, the stadium held its breath again.
In the 76th minute, Madrid came agonizingly close.
James picked up possession twenty-five yards out and unleashed a curling effort that bent viciously toward the top corner. Cech flew, fingertips grazing the ball just enough to send it crashing against the crossbar before bouncing clear.
The Emirates roared that not celebration, but relief.
Van Dijk turned and pointed at Cech, shouting something inaudible but emphatic. The defense reset, hearts pounding.
Arsenal didn't retreat entirely.
They couldn't afford to.
Instead, they waited.
They absorbed pressure, trusted their shape, trusted the moments would come.
And in the 80th minute, it did.
The moment that broke the night open.
It started deep.
Cazorla dropped toward the back line to receive the ball, drawing Modrić out just enough to create space behind him. He turned smoothly, gliding past Casemiro's attempted challenge with a roll of the ball that earned gasps from the crowd.
Francesco saw it instantly.
So did Giroud.
Francesco made a diagonal run inward, dragging Nacho with him. Gnabry sprinted wide right, pinning Marcelo deeper than he wanted to go. The movement fractured Madrid's defensive shape just enough.
Cazorla lifted his head.
And slid the pass.
It was threaded perfectly between Ramos and Nacho, weighted with intention, precision, trust.
Giroud met it with purpose.
One touch to set.
Then the strike.
He hit it first time, low and hard, across Navas and into the bottom corner.
For a heartbeat, the stadium froze.
Then it erupted.
4–2.
The Emirates became something primal.
Noise crashed down from every tier, unrestrained, cathartic. Giroud turned toward the crowd, fists clenched, roaring with everything he had. Cazorla sprinted after him, arms wide, laughter breaking across his face as teammates poured in from every direction.
Francesco reached them last, breathless, wrapping Giroud in a fierce embrace.
That goal felt different.
It didn't just extend the lead.
It changed the gravity of the tie.
On the touchline, Wenger exhaled slowly, hands slipping into his coat pockets as if grounding himself. He didn't celebrate wildly, but the relief was unmistakable, etched into the lines of his face.
Zidane stared at the pitch, lips pressed thin.
Madrid gathered themselves once more, but something had shifted.
The belief was still there but now it was strained, fraying at the edges.
Arsenal responded instinctively.
They dropped deeper.
Compact. Disciplined. Unyielding.
Kanté became a wall, snapping into tackles, chasing lost causes, buying precious seconds with every interception. Xhaka shielded the back line, positioning himself between danger and disaster. Van Dijk and Koscielny stood tall, winning headers, blocking shots, throwing their bodies into challenges without hesitation.
Francesco tracked back now, legs screaming, helping Monreal double up on Cristiano whenever he drifted wide. Gnabry did the same on the opposite flank, youthful energy spent willingly in defensive sprints.
Madrid kept pushing.
Crosses flew in.
Shots rained from distance.
Asensio drove inside and fired low, Cech smothering the ball cleanly. James tried his luck again from range, the ball skidding just wide of the post.
Then, in the 86th minute, Zidane made one final move.
Modrić's number went up.
Mateo Kovačić replaced him.
Fresh legs.
One last roll of the dice.
Madrid surged forward again, throwing numbers into Arsenal's half. Ramos pushed up, practically playing as a striker at times. Casemiro began taking shots from improbable distances, hoping for deflections, chaos, anything.
Arsenal endured.
They cleared.
They reset.
They refused to break.
Francesco felt every second now. His calves burned. His lungs scraped for air. But his mind stayed sharp. Every clearance, every duel, every run mattered.
The clock ticked.
Ninety approached.
Then four minutes of added time appeared on the board.
Groans from the stands.
Madrid pressed one final time.
A cross from the right. Cleared.
Another from the left. Headed away by Van Dijk.
A loose ball fell to Cristiano at the edge of the box as he struck it cleanly, but it flew straight into Cech's gloves.
The goalkeeper held it.
Didn't rush.
Didn't release.
He waited.
The seconds bled away.
When he finally kicked it long, the ball sailed into Madrid's half, bouncing once, twice.
And then, the whistle.
Sharp.
Final.
The sound cut through the night like release.
Francesco stopped where he stood.
For a second, he didn't move.
He just breathed.
The scoreboard glowed above the pitch:
Arsenal 4 – 2 Real Madrid
Champions League.
Quarter-final.
First leg.
The Emirates exploded one last time, noise pouring out of the stands as players dropped to their knees, raised their arms, embraced whoever was closest.
Francesco clenched his fists and looked around.
At his teammates.
At the crowd.
At the pitch that had carried them through something extraordinary.
Giroud grabbed him again, laughing breathlessly. Kanté wrapped both of them in a hug, somehow still smiling like he'd just started the match. Cazorla leaned in, shaking his head in disbelief.
This wasn't over as everyone knew that, the Bernabéu awaited. But tonight, tonight belonged to Arsenal as Francesco turned toward the stands and lifted his arms.
______________________________________________
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: 43
Goal: 68
Assist: 3
MOTM: 9
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