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And the answer, as far as Francesco was concerned, was simple but he knew that he would rise again. Just like he always had. And this season — this next chapter — was just getting started.
Then the daya has pass to 16 August 2015, as the sky was already warm with streaks of golden light breaking through soft clouds when Francesco guided his BMW X5 through the familiar backroads of Hertfordshire, heading toward Colney. He wore a white fitted shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black slacks, and a pair of crisp sneakers — clean lines for matchday morning. His Arsenal gear was packed neatly in the duffel bag on the passenger seat: boots cleaned and socks folded.
He rolled down the window slightly, letting the summer breeze in as he drove. A quiet energy buzzed through him — not nerves, not quite excitement, but something electric. The start of the season was always like this. It was the beginning of a story, unwritten and waiting to be told. And today, the first page would be inked.
His phone buzzed in the console tray.
Leah
"You've got this. Don't hold back. I'll be watching."
Francesco smiled to himself and tapped out a quick voice reply at the next red light.
"Wouldn't dream of it. Love you."
Colney was already alive when he arrived. The staff were moving efficiently, kitmen loading gear into the undercarriage of the team bus, Shad and the performance team checking over hydration packs and recovery supplies. The players were trickling in, sharp in their tailored pre-match suits — dark navy with the Arsenal crest stitched in red on the breast pocket. Francesco parked in his usual spot and stepped out, greeted by a handshake and a nod from one of the security guards stationed near the entrance.
"Morning, champ," the guard said.
Francesco returned the nod. "Morning. Feels like a good day."
Inside, the atmosphere was muted but focused — the kind of quiet reserved for people who knew the stakes. No joking around now. The banter would come later — if they won. For now, the halls were filled with the soft shuffle of leather shoes on tile, the occasional murmur between teammates, and the distant hiss of the espresso machine in the kitchen.
He made his way to the briefing room, where a final tactical reminder was waiting. Wenger stood near the monitor again, wearing his trademark dark suit and tie, arms crossed, expression composed. The rest of the team filed in, filling the rows of seats, their eyes sharp.
"Today," Wenger began, "is about clarity. Nothing fancy. No unnecessary risks. We play our football. We play our rhythm. We do not panic."
The screen lit up again, showing West Ham's starting eleven. As expected, Payet was in the lineup, playing behind Sakho. Kouyaté and Noble in midfield. A defensive line that would sit deep and compact.
"They will try to absorb. Counter. Frustrate you. But we are not the same team from last August. We are sharper. Faster. Stronger."
He looked around the room, gaze settling briefly on Francesco.
"Remember who we are. Let them chase shadows."
The team bus was humming by the time they stepped aboard, engines already warm. Francesco took his usual seat beside Mesut Özil. The playmaker was quiet, earphones in, nodding to a rhythm only he could hear. Across the aisle, Koscielny was reviewing a few last clips on his tablet, and Alexis was leaning back with his eyes closed, completely still, like a man asleep with the game already running through his dreams.
Francesco stared out the window as the bus pulled onto the main road, leaving Colney behind and heading toward the Emirates. The streets began to swell with traffic — some Arsenal scarves already poking out of windows, flags waving from car antennas. The city was waking up to football again.
The Emirates rose into view like a modern cathedral, steel and glass gleaming in the morning light. As the bus turned onto the access road, a cheer went up from the crowd already gathered along the barriers. Hundreds of fans in red and white lined the pavement, waving, chanting, some holding homemade signs. One boy — maybe ten years old — was hoisted up on his father's shoulders, holding a sign with Francesco's name scrawled in thick black marker:
"LEE 9 — MAKE THEM BELIEVE AGAIN."
Francesco caught the sign and smiled, raising his hand through the tinted window. The boy's face lit up.
Inside the tunnel, the air was cooler — part air-conditioning, part nerves. The dressing room was immaculate, shirts hanging with precision, boots laid out like weapons before a battle. Francesco found his spot — third locker from the end — and began his ritual.
Headphones in. "Lose Yourself" by Eminem.
Lace boots right foot first.
Jersey over the head last.
One slow exhale.
Francesco placed his headphones down gently on the shelf above his kit, the last notes of Lose Yourself fading into the background hum of the dressing room. Around him, the others were already moving — shirts off, training tops on, track pants being swapped for lightweight shorts. No one spoke much. They all knew the routine by now, the rhythm of preparation that came before the storm.
He slipped into his training kit — red top with navy sleeves, the Arsenal cannon stitched proudly on his chest — then stood, rolling his neck slowly to loosen the last bit of tension still clinging to his shoulders. A pair of fresh warm-up boots waited under the bench, different from the polished match pair he'd saved for kickoff. Lighter, more forgiving.
The corridor outside the dressing room was a tunnel of fluorescent lights and faint echoes. He joined the line of players filing out: Alexis with his usual bounce in his step, Oxlade-Chamberlain stretching his arms overhead, Coquelin already clapping his hands together to get the blood flowing.
Once they stepped out into the bright daylight of the Emirates pitch, the stadium — still mostly empty — seemed to stretch open like a yawning giant, hungry for what was to come. The seats were a mosaic of red and white. A few early-arriving fans dotted the stands, waving as the players jogged out in formation, earning a light cheer from those already watching.
Warm-up began with dynamic stretches — high knees, lunges, hamstring kicks. Francesco moved fluidly, his body already beginning to switch into match mode. The trainers ran them through small passing drills, rondos, and coordinated sprints. He worked through each one with quiet intensity, his touches crisp, movement clean. The sun filtered down over the stadium, casting long shadows on the grass as their boots whispered across the pitch.
They broke into position-specific drills. Francesco, working with Özil, Alexis, and Ox, practiced final-third movements — quick give-and-goes, darting runs in behind cones, one-touch finishes. Wenger watched from the sideline, arms folded, eyes like a hawk. Occasionally, he said something quietly to Shad or to Boro Primorac, but otherwise, he let the rhythm build on its own.
After forty-five minutes of controlled sweat, the group regrouped in the center circle. A final jog across the field, clapping to the corners where fans were now arriving in larger waves. Francesco took a last look around as they jogged off — the banners being unfurled, the chants beginning to rise, the smell of grass mixing with the scent of burgers from the concourse.
Back in the dressing room, it was cooler — the A/C now a welcome reprieve. Bottles of water and isotonic drinks were passed around, the players stripping out of the damp training kits, towels slung over shoulders as they dried off.
Francesco took a seat and exhaled, letting the warmth of the match settle in his bones.
Wenger stood once more at the front of the room, now flanked by Steve Bould and Boro, his expression calm but firm.
"Formation today is four-two-three-one," Wenger began, gesturing to the magnetic board where small red counters began to take shape. "We start with Petr in goal."
The marker clicked across the board.
"Back line: Monreal on the left. Per and Laurent in the center. Debuchy on the right."
A murmur of acknowledgment passed through the defenders. Mertesacker gave a small nod — the captain's armband had been slipped into his locker, ready.
"In midfield: Francis and Santi. Double pivot. Stability, transition. You know your roles."
Francesco glanced toward Cazorla, who smiled back in that quiet, experienced way. Next to him, Coquelin cracked his knuckles and gave a focused nod.
"Mesut in the hole — central attacking mid," Wenger continued. "Left wing: Alexis. Right wing: Oxlade-Chamberlain. And up top…"
He paused, just long enough.
"…Francesco."
There was no need to say more.
"You're not just our number nine. You're our second captain. Make your presence felt early. Lead the line."
Francesco nodded once, firmly. His heart thudded, calm but loud. This was the moment.
"The bench: Ospina. Virgil. Ramsey. Kanté. Mikel. Theo. Giroud."
He let the names settle.
"Everyone will be needed. The game is never finished at kickoff."
Wenger stepped away from the board and looked around, eyes sharp beneath his silver fringe.
"They'll sit deep. Try to frustrate. Kouyaté and Noble will chase everything. Payet will look to find gaps. But we are not playing their game. We dictate the rhythm. We find our width. We trust each other."
The players rose to their feet, the room shifting into motion again. Francesco pulled his matchday socks over his calves — crisp white with the red hoops — and stepped into his boots, tightening the laces with practiced care. He slipped on the jersey — red with white sleeves, his name LEE and the number 9 pressed in bold on the back — and let the familiar weight settle onto his shoulders.
Across the room, Cech sat in quiet meditation, his black headguard already on. Mertesacker had the armband in his hand, preparing himself with a few deep breaths. Özil adjusted his shin pads with calm precision, and Alexis was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, energy contained but barely.
Francesco stood slowly, grabbing his wrist tape and wrapping it neatly around both wrists — three turns, no more, no less.
When they stepped into the tunnel, the buzz hit like a wave. The noise, the vibration of it. West Ham were already there, claret and blue kits sharp against the tunnel lights. Francesco gave a few nods — he recognized Noble, Payet, Sakho — then turned forward again, eyes narrowing.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. Mertesacker leaned in.
"You good?"
"More than good."
"Then let's show them."
A final roar burst from the crowd as the tunnel cameras went live. The announcer's voice echoed in the air above the pitch.
"Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome onto the pitch — Arsenal and West Ham United!"
The teams emerged into daylight again, and the full noise of the Emirates hit them like a thunderclap. Over sixty thousand fans were in full voice, banners waving, scarves held aloft. Francesco stepped onto the grass and let the moment pass through him.
This was it. Matchday. Opening day. The first chapter of the new season.
As the players lined up for handshakes, the cameras panned across the eleven in red and white. The commentary from Sky Sports crackled from the press box, Martin Tyler's voice filled with anticipation:
"…and there he is, the teenager who stunned everyone last season — Francesco Lee. Last season golden boots winner. Arsenal's new number nine. Starting up front once again, this time as second captain at just sixteen. It's a big season for him."
They broke from the line and moved into position. Francesco took his place at the center circle, glancing behind him. Özil gave a small thumbs-up. Alexis winked. Oxlade adjusted his headband and grinned.
He looked across the pitch, where the West Ham back four were lining up. He knew what they were thinking. He's young. He's flashy. Let's see if he can do it again.
Francesco rolled his shoulders back, dug his studs into the grass, and waited for the whistle.
Then the match started.
Fifteen minutes into the opening game of the 2015–16 Premier League season, the Emirates had already transformed into a cauldron of noise and tension. The atmosphere pulsed with every challenge, every sprint, every half-chance. This wasn't a sleepy opener — it was a firefight.
Arsenal and West Ham had come out flying. No cagey build-up, no feeling-out period. Just pace, precision, and power from both sides.
The first scare came inside the opening five minutes. West Ham broke quickly after an Arsenal corner — Payet drifting inside from the left, turning past Coquelin with a silky drop of the shoulder before releasing Sakho through the middle. The Hammers striker raced clear, but Cech stood tall, reading the angle and dropping low to parry the shot wide with a strong right hand. The Emirates held its breath… then exhaled as Koscielny thumped the rebound into the stands.
Just two minutes later, Arsenal answered. Özil clipped a delightful ball into the left channel, where Alexis latched onto it with a dancer's grace, took a touch inside Tomkins, and fired low at the near post. But Adrián, in West Ham's goal, was equal to it — a sprawling save, fingertips deflecting the ball just wide of the upright. Applause rippled through the stands, fans appreciating the fire already lit under the match.
By the ten-minute mark, both keepers had been called into action again.
Payet, already pulling strings from deeper positions, floated in a free kick from 30 yards. It looked harmless at first — lofted high, almost lazy — but it dipped sharply, forcing Cech to backpedal and tip it over the bar at full stretch. The veteran's hand smacked the ball just in time, earning another relieved roar from the crowd.
From the resulting corner, Arsenal broke with venom. Coquelin intercepted, fed Oxlade-Chamberlain, and the winger burst through the middle like a sprinter out of the blocks. His pace left Noble scrambling, and with the defenders backing off, he squared it to Francesco on the edge of the area. One touch to set himself. Another to shoot. Low, curling, and destined for the far corner — but Adrián again flung himself across the goal and pushed it away.
Francesco slapped his hands together, frustration and excitement blending. That was close.
In the fifteenth minute, the rhythm hadn't slowed. Both teams refused to blink.
West Ham came again, this time with Cresswell overlapping down the left. A clever backheel from Oxford put the fullback into space, and his whipped cross found Kouyaté rising at the back post. A thumping header followed — powerful and clean — but Cech was there again, diving left, palming the ball into safety.
Three saves apiece now from both keepers. And still, no goal.
The pace was relentless. On the touchline, Wenger shouted brief instructions to Debuchy, while Bilic barked at Payet to drop deeper when Arsenal had the ball. No one — fans, managers, players — was taking this opener lightly. The intensity was raw, pure, the kind of football that made opening day feel like a title decider.
Francesco dropped deep, drawing defenders with him. He could feel the respect now — West Ham's back line staying tighter to him, not lunging into tackles but shadowing every move. He adjusted. Played quicker. Gave and went. Let the game flow through him rather than trying to break it open alone.
Behind him, Özil was beginning to hum. The German floated between the lines, threading passes into space only he could see. One such pass nearly split West Ham apart — a disguised through ball that allowed Alexis a half-step advantage on Tomkins — but once more, Adrián was alert, racing off his line to smother it.
The crowd roared their appreciation. Arsenal were probing, pushing, chipping away at the wall in front of them.
And yet, West Ham wouldn't break. Not yet.
By the twentieth minute, it was already one of the most gripping season openers in recent memory. The Emirates simmered with anticipation, knowing that sooner or later, someone — Francesco, Payet, Alexis, Özil — would ignite the spark that blew this match wide open.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Match Played: 1
Goal: 3
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9