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He could barely hear himself think over the chants. But he didn't need to. He was ready. This was it. Chelsea. Arsenal. First versus second. The title race in full swing.
The two teams stood lined up along the halfway line, flanking the referees as the Emirates hummed with electricity. The sound was a living thing now, vibrating through the grass and pulsing through the lungs of every player on the pitch. The Arsenal end held aloft their scarves, red and white stripes fluttering in unison like banners in a battle march. Across the way, the Chelsea fans answered with their own chants, louder than usual, defiant, refusing to be drowned out.
Francesco stood just beside Hector Bellerín, eyes forward, hands behind his back, as the pre-match ceremony rolled out in the steady rhythm of tradition. He glanced once at the player directly across from him—Eden Hazard. Calm, sharp-eyed, chewing gum like it was just another afternoon. But Francesco could feel it. The tension. Even Hazard couldn't hide it in the way his jaw flexed a little harder than usual.
The head referee stepped forward, flanked by his assistants, and gave the signal. Both captains moved forward—Per Mertesacker, all calm precision, and John Terry, still carrying that air of blue-blooded authority.
They shook hands firmly, exchanged polite nods, then turned as the referee revealed the coin.
"Heads or tails?" the referee asked.
"Heads," said Mertesacker.
The coin spun in the air, caught the light, and landed in the ref's palm.
"Tails."
John Terry nodded. "We'll kick off."
Mertesacker gave a brief nod in return, then turned and jogged back toward the Arsenal half. The rest of the team dispersed, each player jogging into position, rolling shoulders, stamping boots, waking their bodies for the ninety minutes ahead.
Francesco drifted right, planting himself along the touchline. The crowd just behind him was a sea of shouting faces, some already screaming his name, others waving massive Arsenal flags.
He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled.
Let's begin.
The whistle blew—and the game began.
Chelsea kicked off, knocking the ball back toward Ramires, who immediately shifted it wide to Ivanović. But before the right-back could settle, Francesco was already charging, cutting off the passing lane to Willian. Ivanović played it safe, shuttling it back to Cahill.
Arsenal pressed high, not recklessly, but with sharp intention. Özil shadowed Fabregas. Alexis pressed Azpilicueta. Francesco tracked Ivanović every step. The tone was clear: no one would get space for free today.
The first few minutes were fast and physical. Chelsea tried to control possession with their deep midfield duo—Ramires breaking up play, Matic distributing. But Arsenal weren't sitting back either. Coquelin snapped into tackles early, twice dispossessing Fabregas and feeding Cazorla, who sprayed quick passes forward.
On the other side of the pitch, Hazard began testing Bellerín with darting runs, cutting inside, feinting and twisting. But the Spaniard held firm, staying low and matching him step for step.
Eight minutes in, the first big chance came.
Giroud dropped deep, touched the ball to Özil, who flicked it out wide to Francesco in stride. With two quick touches, he skipped past Ivanović and swung in a curling cross to the near post. Alexis darted in, meeting it with a flicked header—on target—but Courtois, all reflex and reach, clawed it away with both hands. The Emirates groaned in unison.
Chelsea countered immediately.
Willian broke down the right, slipping a pass into Oscar, who dummied it past Mertesacker. The Brazilian ran into space, but Ospina rushed off his line, narrowing the angle and palming the shot away.
1–1 on big saves. The tone had been set.
By the fifteenth minute, the game had turned into a midfield warzone. Coquelin and Matic collided more than once—two aggressive anchors canceling each other out. Fabregas found pockets of space, but never for long. Every time he tried to turn, an Arsenal body was there—Özil, Coquelin, even Francesco tracked back once to muscle him off the ball near the halfway line.
Francesco had grown into the match quickly. His touch was crisp, his positioning exact. He wasn't afraid to take on Ivanović, even drawing a foul near the edge of the box after a quick step-over had the Serbian full-back reaching too far. The free kick went just over from Cazorla, but it raised the volume again.
At the other end, Hazard nearly broke the deadlock.
Drifting inside from the left, he played a slick one-two with Oscar, then darted into the box and rifled a shot low toward the far post. Ospina, again alert, got down quick and pushed it wide.
Save number three for the Colombian. And barely twenty minutes gone.
Francesco glanced at the scoreboard as he jogged back into position. 0–0. But the pace told another story. This wasn't a slow-burn chess match—it was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
The next ten minutes saw both sides continue to jab. Chelsea with their composed build-up, Arsenal with explosive transitions. Özil began finding more space now, pulling Fabregas wider than Mourinho would've liked. Giroud held the line well, occupying both Terry and Cahill, which allowed Francesco and Alexis to pinch in more often.
Francesco nearly created the opener in the 23rd minute.
A slick give-and-go with Cazorla along the right edge saw him burst into the box, dragging Ivanović with him. He cut inside and fired low toward the near post, but Courtois was equal to it again, getting a foot on it and sending it behind for a corner.
He didn't show it, but Francesco was fuming—three chances, no goals.
The corner came to nothing, but Arsenal kept up the pressure. The crowd felt it too. Every pass, every press, every near-miss drew louder responses now.
By the half-hour mark, both goalkeepers had made three saves apiece, and both had shouted themselves hoarse organizing their backlines. Mertesacker kept barking instructions at Koscielny, at Coquelin. Terry did the same, waving his arm like a conductor whenever Özil or Alexis found daylight.
Still 0–0. But no one in the stadium could sit still.
Francesco stole another glance across the pitch at Hazard. The Belgian was dangerous, always one dribble away from turning the game on its head.
The game roared on, neither side willing to yield an inch. The Emirates was a cauldron of noise, every tackle, every near-miss, every flash of brilliance met with roars or groans that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium. The players could feel it—the weight of the moment, the unrelenting pressure. This wasn't just a match; it was a battle of wills, a test of who would blink first.
Both teams were lethal in attack, but just as quickly as chances were created, they were snuffed out by defenders and goalkeepers who seemed to be operating at their absolute peak.
Chelsea, the disciplined machine under Mourinho, moved the ball with purpose. Fabregas, despite being hounded by Cazorla and Coquelin, kept probing, looking for that killer pass. He nearly found it in the 34th minute, threading a ball between Koscielny and Monreal to release Hazard. The Belgian took one touch, cut inside onto his right, and unleashed a curling shot destined for the top corner—only for Ospina to fling himself across goal and tip it over. The Colombian was playing out of his mind, and the Arsenal faithful erupted in appreciation, chanting his name.
At the other end, Arsenal's response was immediate. A quick throw-in from Bellerín found Francesco, who turned Ivanović with a sharp feint before whipping in a cross. Giroud, wrestling with Terry, met it with a powerful header, but Courtois—tall, unshakable—leaped and palmed it onto the crossbar. The rebound fell to Alexis, whose follow-up was blocked by a diving Cahill. The Chelsea fans gasped; the Arsenal supporters howled for a penalty as Alexis went down under the challenge, but the referee waved play on.
On the touchline, Wenger and Mourinho were locked in their own duel.
Wenger, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, paced his technical area with measured intensity. Every so often, he'd stop, lean forward, and bark an instruction—sometimes at Özil to drift wider, other times at Coquelin to stay tight to Fabregas. His face was a mask of focus, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the stakes. This wasn't just another match. This was Chelsea. This was Mourinho. And after years of battles, of mind games, of painful defeats and hard-fought draws, Wenger knew what this meant.
Mourinho, meanwhile, stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable behind those dark sunglasses. But his body language spoke volumes. Every time Arsenal broke forward, his shoulders tensed. Every time Chelsea lost possession in a dangerous area, he'd snap at the fourth official, demanding fouls that weren't given. He knew his team was holding firm, but he also knew Arsenal were growing into the game.
In the 39th minute, he finally snapped. After Francesco skipped past Ivanović yet again and forced Courtois into another save, Mourinho spun toward his bench and barked at Mikel to warm up. A change was coming—Chelsea needed more steel in midfield.
The middle of the park had become a warzone. Coquelin with Cazorla and Matic with Ramires were like four pitbulls locked in a cage, neither willing to back down. Every 50-50 ball was a collision, every tackle a statement.
Then, in the 42nd minute, the game nearly turned.
Fabregas, dropping deep to escape Özil's shadow, played a quick one-two with Oscar before lofting a pass over the top for Hazard. The Belgian took it in stride, his touch immaculate, and surged toward goal. Koscielny scrambled back, but Hazard was too quick—he shifted the ball onto his right and fired.
Ospina, again, was there. But this time, the rebound fell straight to Oscar, who only had to tap it in—only for Mertesacker to throw himself in the way, blocking the shot with his chest. The ball ricocheted out to Willian, who smashed it first-time—but Bellerín, sprinting back, somehow got a foot to it, deflecting it over.
The Emirates exhaled as one.
Chelsea's players surrounded the referee, demanding a penalty—Oscar claiming Mertesacker had used his arm—but the officials weren't interested. Replays would later show it was pure, desperate defending.
Then the halftime whistle cut through the electric atmosphere, a brief reprieve in the war that had been raging on the pitch. Both sets of players trudged off, their shirts soaked through with sweat, their lungs burning. The scoreline read 0-0, but the story of the first half had been written in near-misses, heroic saves, and bone-crunching tackles.
Inside the Arsenal dressing room, the air was thick with tension and the sharp scent of deep heat. Players gulped down water, some sprawled on benches catching their breath, others pacing like caged animals. Francesco wiped his face with a towel, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. He had been everywhere—darting past Ivanović, tracking back to dispossess Hazard, even throwing himself into that last-ditch block to deny Oscar. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
Wenger stood at the center of the room, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a quiet intensity. He waited for silence, his sharp eyes scanning each player. When he spoke, his voice was measured but carried an edge.
"We are playing well," he began, "but we must be sharper. More clinical."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Every player leaned in.
"Francesco," Wenger continued, locking eyes with him. "Ivanović is struggling with your movement. In the second half, I want you to isolate him more. Draw him out, then attack the space behind. Don't let him settle."
Francesco nodded. He had felt it too—the Serbian defender was tiring, his reactions just a fraction slower.
Wenger turned to Özil. "Mesut, Fabregas is dropping too deep. When he does that, I want you to press higher. Force him into mistakes. Don't let him dictate."
Özil gave a quiet nod. He had been disciplined in his marking, but Wenger wanted more.
Then, the manager's gaze shifted to Coquelin and Cazorla. "The midfield battle is where this game will be won. They are trying to control it with Matic and Ramires. We must be quicker. One-touch passes. Move the ball fast. Don't let them set."
Coquelin, still buzzing from his earlier duels, clenched his fists. "We've got them," he muttered. "They don't like it when we play at speed."
Wenger allowed a small, knowing smile. "Exactly."
Finally, he addressed the entire group. "This is a game of small margins. One moment. One decision. Be ready."
Across the hallway, in the Chelsea dressing room, Mourinho was delivering his own sermon. His voice, unlike Wenger's, was a controlled storm—sharp, direct, leaving no room for doubt.
"They are dangerous on the break," he warned. "But they leave spaces. Hazard, Willian—when we recover the ball, I want you running at their backline immediately. No hesitation."
Hazard, chewing on an energy bar, nodded. He had been Chelsea's brightest spark, twisting past Bellerín more than once. But he knew he needed to be even more ruthless.
Mourinho turned to Matic. "You stay tight to Özil. Don't let him turn. If he drops deep, follow him. I don't want him influencing the game."
Then, his eyes locked onto Ivanović. "Branislav. That winger—Francesco—he's quick. But you're stronger. Be aggressive. Don't let him cut inside."
Ivanović, his face set in a scowl, gave a firm nod. He had been given a torrid time in the first half, and Mourinho's words were a clear challenge.
"And Oscar," Mourinho added, his tone turning icy. "You must be more involved. Hold the ball up. Bring others into play. And when you get a chance—finish it."
Oscar, sitting with his arms crossed, didn't respond. But the message was clear.
As the players re-emerged from the tunnel, the Emirates roared back to life. The fans could sense it—this was far from over.
Arsenal kicked off, and immediately, the tempo was ferocious. Francesco, fresh from Wenger's instructions, went straight at Ivanović, forcing the defender into an early foul. The resulting free-kick was whipped in by Cazorla, met by Giroud's glancing header—but Courtois, ever the giant, plucked it out of the air with ease.
Chelsea responded instantly. A quick throw from Azpilicueta found Hazard, who danced past Coquelin before sliding a pass to Oscar. Oscar held off Koscielny, spun, and fired—but Ospina, again, was equal to it, parrying the shot wide. The game had become a relentless back-and-forth, neither side willing to cede control.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 16 (2014)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : None
Match Played: 30
Goal: 35
Assist: 12
MOTM: 8