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And as the crowd sang, as the final minutes ticked down, he allowed himself one last glance toward the glass box where Leah stood, now joined by a few others, all applauding.
There was hardly time for Newcastle to even gather themselves after Francesco's second goal.
The restart was brief—two or three more passes, a half-hearted run down the right from Thauvin that ended with a hopeful cross plucked cleanly from the air by Petr Čech. Then Ramsey collected the next clearance, kept it tidy, and played it square to Koscielny, who passed it back to Mertesacker.
Arsenal were in control not just of the scoreline, but of the clock.
And when the fourth official's board went up with two fingers glowing red, the crowd stood up before the final whistle even came.
They knew. The night belonged to Arsenal.
And just three minutes later, the referee gave the signal.
Three short blasts. Firm. Final.
Full-time.
ARSENAL 3 – 0 NEWCASTLE
The sound that followed wasn't just cheering—it was catharsis. The Emirates had waited for a performance like this. Not just clinical, not just composed—but confident, expressive, and emphatic. The kind of win that didn't feel like survival. It felt like statement.
And at the heart of it, Francesco.
As soon as the whistle blew, he stopped near the center circle, hands on his hips, chest still rising and falling in time with the floodlights above. The exhale that came out of him wasn't just breath—it was pride made audible.
He turned slowly, scanning the pitch like a general surveying a won battlefield.
Ramsey and Özil shared a quick handshake, then bumped foreheads and laughed. Giroud clapped his hands toward the crowd, raising his arms to encourage even more noise. Koscielny and Mertesacker embraced like twin pillars of stone, unmoved and unbothered by all they'd endured.
And Francesco?
He simply walked.
Not in a rush. Not toward anyone.
Until he looked up—toward the north stand—and saw them.
The fans.
Thousands of them, all on their feet. Clapping. Whistling. Chanting.
Then it began.
Low at first. A ripple. A hum in the belly of the beast.
"LEE! LEE! LEE! LEE! LEE!"
It caught fire. Fast.
🎶 "Ohhhhh Francesco Lee,
He runs the show for The Arsenal,
He scores, he leads, he makes us dream—
He's magic, our number nine!" 🎶
That last line hit him like a wave.
He slowed again, turned toward them properly now, and lifted one hand—just a small wave, nothing theatrical.
But it was enough.
They responded as if it were a goal all its own. The volume surged. Flares of red and white scarves twirled in the cold January air. Phone screens blinked like stars. Camera flashes strobed across the terraces.
And for a moment, for a very human, very real moment, Francesco felt the warmth of it settle into his chest.
Not fame.
Not ego.
But belonging.
Recognition.
Love.
He jogged toward the players now gathering near the tunnel entrance, where hugs, backslaps, and lighthearted teasing buzzed through the group. Oxlade-Chamberlain came over first, tossing an arm over his shoulder. "Hey, next time you score two, at least let the rest of us get a look-in."
"Right," Giroud added with a grin. "Give us peasants a chance."
"You're not a peasant," Francesco replied, deadpan. "You're just slow."
Laughter all around.
But then came the tap on his shoulder.
A polite, almost deferential presence. A man in Premier League gear—navy jacket, lanyard, earpiece tucked against his jaw.
"Francesco?"
He turned, eyebrows raised.
The staffer smiled. "Sorry to interrupt. You've been named Man of the Match. We'd like to take you over for the post-match presentation and media."
Francesco nodded, unsurprised. The brace. The captain's armband. The control. It made sense.
"Sure," he said, running a hand back through his damp hair. "Let's go."
He gave a nod to Wenger on his way past—his manager returning it with a slight smile and a quiet thumbs-up—and followed the staffer down the touchline toward the small media zone set up just off the pitch near the dugout.
There, waiting for him, was a small podium with the Premier League logo, a mic, and a single stand adorned with a bright red trophy—Premier League Man of the Match, the one that looked more like a tech gadget than an actual award.
He stepped into position just as the cameras focused.
A presenter, already mid-sentence, turned slightly toward him as the broadcast rolled.
"And here he is—Arsenal's captain and two-goal hero tonight—Francesco Lee. Francesco, congratulations. A 3–0 win, a brace for yourself, and top of the table preserved. Just how satisfying was that performance?"
Francesco took the mic gently, adjusted it closer, and smiled—not forced, not rehearsed. Just present.
"Yeah… it was a good night," he said, voice steady but warm. "We knew Newcastle would come at us. They're a good side, especially when they're chasing a result. But we prepared well. Everyone was sharp. And once we found our rhythm, we just… stayed in control."
"And talk us through your second goal—the finish across goal, off the post. Özil with the assist, of course."
Francesco chuckled. "Of course," he repeated with a grin. "It started with Per, actually. He stepped up and broke their line. Aaron didn't hesitate. Mesut, as always, saw it before I did. I just made the run and tried to hit it clean."
"Celebration looked personal."
He nodded, glancing up at the VIP box before looking back at the camera. "It was. Just… someone special. Someone who believes in me no matter what."
"Two goals tonight. That takes you to—what—twenty in the league now?"
"Twenty three actually," he corrected, still grinning. "But who's counting?"
More laughter from the small crowd of media and crew.
The presenter raised the trophy. "Well, Twenty three goals and another three points for Arsenal. Congratulations, Francesco—our Man of the Match."
He accepted the award with both hands, giving it a little tap against the mic like a toast. "Thanks. This one's for the lads. We've got something special this year."
He stepped away as the interview wrapped, the producer nodding in approval, already clipping the footage for highlights.
Francesco didn't head for the tunnel right away.
Instead, he took a slow walk along the touchline, giving fans high fives, signing a few shirts that were held out with trembling hands, and posing for a selfie or two—especially from the young ones waving programs and homemade posters with "CAPTAIN LEE" scribbled in red marker.
Then, finally, he turned up the tunnel.
Still smiling.
Still grounded.
Inside the dressing room, the energy was pure post-match bliss. Wet shirts were being flung into laundry bins, hot towels draped over shoulders, and the low hum of music spilled from a small speaker Ox had brought in.
The dressing room after a win like that was always its own kind of sanctuary. Not quiet—not even close—but alive with the kind of energy that couldn't be bottled. Boots clunked against the floor, towels slapped skin, water bottles were passed like celebratory flutes. Players moved around with a mixture of relief and elation, the soreness in their legs dulled by the satisfaction of a job done right.
Francesco sat briefly on the bench near his locker, the Man of the Match trophy balanced beside him, catching glints of the overhead lights. He exhaled slowly, head leaning back against the cool wall behind him, sweat drying on his skin in patches. His heart had finally slowed from that post-goal buzz, but the adrenaline still hummed faintly in his limbs like the aftershock of thunder.
He peeled off his kit—jersey first, then socks, then boots with a grunt. Mud caked the studs, and his left sock had a nick where Dummett's cleat had caught him during a scramble for possession late in the second half. A bruise would bloom there by morning. He didn't care.
"Nice interview," Ramsey called across the room, now shirtless, toweling his hair. "You've got that whole humble-but-dashing thing going for you."
Francesco laughed. "You trying to get a dinner date too?"
"If it comes with that Özil assist menu, I might."
A chorus of chuckles followed.
Özil himself leaned back on the bench next to his locker, tying the laces on his sneakers. "You're lucky I like you," he said without looking up. "Or I'd be charging royalties."
Francesco stood, stretching his arms overhead with a deep groan. "You and I are going to be stuck on highlight reels together for the rest of our careers."
"I can live with that," Özil said.
Francesco padded toward the showers, the heat and steam already beckoning like an oasis after battle. Inside, it was a foggy blur of tile and cascading water. A few of the players were already under the stream—Koscielny, silent as always, eyes closed with his face turned up; Chamberlain singing something barely coherent in between rinses of his shampoo-covered hair.
Francesco stepped under the water, the first sting of it forcing a shiver down his spine. He tilted his head forward, letting it hammer down his neck and shoulders, washing away the sweat, the grass, the residue of ninety minutes plus stoppage time.
As the water poured over him, his mind wandered—not to tactics or stats or table rankings, but to the look on Leah's face after his goal. The way her hands had flown to her mouth, the way her eyes had lit up when he made the celebration just for her.
He smiled to himself, the kind of smile no one else could see, then ran his fingers through his damp hair and finished up.
Ten minutes later, he emerged clean, refreshed, and dressed in his full Arsenal tracksuit—black with red stripes down the arms, club crest over his chest, and his initials—FL—stitched neatly below the collarbone.
He was rubbing a towel across the back of his neck when Wenger stepped into the dressing room.
The manager was always calm after a win, but tonight he wore the particular expression of a man whose players had delivered not just a result, but a philosophy.
He scanned the room once, then stopped when his eyes landed on Francesco and Özil, who were both by the lockers, sipping from bottles of electrolyte water.
"Francesco. Mesut." Wenger gestured with two fingers. "Come. Press conference."
Francesco blinked once. "Us? Both?"
The manager gave a rare, thin smile. "Man of the Match and master of the assist? Yes. You've earned the microphone."
Özil stood with a soft grunt and grabbed his tracksuit jacket. "Let's hope they're nicer than the ones in Madrid."
Francesco laughed and followed him out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the hallway that led past the physio office and toward the press lounge.
The media room at the Emirates was brightly lit, sterile in a way that only spaces built for soundbites could be. Rows of chairs, journalists already in place, laptops open, dictaphones blinking. The Arsenal crest was emblazoned on the backdrop behind the long desk at the front, flanked by the Premier League logo and a few sponsor brands.
As Wenger entered first, a ripple of camera clicks began immediately. Flashes popped. Then Özil followed, hands in his jacket pockets, expression neutral but not cold. Then Francesco, Man of the Match trophy in hand.
The room buzzed louder.
They took their seats—Wenger in the middle, Francesco and Özil on either side. Microphones adjusted. Notepads readied.
The club's press officer stood to the side, nodding toward the first journalist to ask.
"Arsène, congratulations on a commanding win. Could you start by sharing your thoughts on the performance?"
Wenger leaned forward slightly. "Merci. Yes. It was what we wanted—a performance not just of quality, but of control. We respected Newcastle. They can be dangerous when they have space. But we denied them that. We forced them to play on our terms."
"And Francesco," the reporter turned, "another two goals tonight. You seem to be thriving in this captain's role."
Francesco leaned in toward the mic. "It's been a journey. But yeah, I feel good. We've built something strong this season. There's trust. And when you have players like Mesut next to you, it makes everything smoother."
Özil smirked and spoke into his mic. "You're lucky I like you."
Laughter rippled through the room.
A second reporter chimed in. "Francesco, your second goal—off the post, clinical finish. Was that instinct or rehearsed?"
"A bit of both," he replied. "We've talked a lot in training about that central channel. When Mesut turns and has time, I know to run. I saw the opening, and when the ball came, I didn't overthink it. Just strike clean. Hope the post is kind."
"Arsène," another voice asked, "how do you assess Francesco's growth this season?"
Wenger sat back, thoughtful. "He has matured—not only as a player, but as a leader. There is intelligence to his game now, patience. He does not chase every pass, he lets the match come to him. That is rare. And he brings others into the game, which is the mark of a true captain."
Francesco kept his face neutral, but inside, the words rang like cathedral bells.
A few more questions followed—one about Özil's positioning, another about Ramsey's impact off the bench, and a cheeky one about whether Wenger believed this team could win the title.
Wenger didn't blink. "We have to earn every point. One game at a time."
One of the reporters near the middle, a younger guy with a notepad already half-scribbled to the margin, leaned forward, raising his hand politely.
"Francesco, Mesut, Arsène—this is slightly off today's match, but it's a big talking point. Leicester City are now second in the table, just three points ahead of Manchester City. It's… well, frankly, it's been one of the shocks of the season, given they were promoted only last year."
He looked down at his notes, then added, "Can you share your thoughts on their rise—especially the form of Vardy, Mahrez, and Kasper Schmeichel? Because, to many people, Leicester were tipped for relegation, not Europe."
The room stirred slightly. The Leicester story had been gaining traction week after week, but now—with January in full swing and Claudio Ranieri's men still holding strong—it had gone from a quirky underdog tale to something no one could quite explain.
Wenger didn't rush to answer. He crossed one leg over the other and placed his fingers together, templed in thought. "Let me start by saying—what Leicester have done is remarkable. And not just surprising, but consistent. It is one thing to have a good October, another to be in the top two after the New Year. That speaks to something deeper."
Francesco leaned forward in his seat slightly, interest piqued. Like the rest of the league, he'd watched Leicester's rise with a mixture of awe and curiosity. No one really believed it at first. Then Vardy broke the Premier League record for consecutive matches scored in. Then Mahrez started dancing past defenders like they were holograms. Then Schmeichel started pulling off saves with his father's legacy carved into every leap.
"I'll be honest," Francesco said into the mic, his tone candid. "We all thought they'd fade around Christmas. That's usually what happens—momentum runs out, squads get stretched, and reality catches up. But it hasn't."
He exchanged a quick glance with Özil, who nodded slightly.
"Vardy," Francesco continued, "is a menace. He presses like a madman. Always on your shoulder. The kind of forward who makes defenders sweat before kickoff. He's not the cleanest finisher in the world, but he's ruthless. You give him an inch, he's already gone."
There was something almost admiring in his voice—not flattery, but respect earned in the trenches of competition.
"And Mahrez…" He shook his head slightly, chuckling. "That guy's magic. I mean—he makes things happen out of nothing. One second he's hugging the touchline, and the next he's ghosting past two players and curling one into the top corner. He's the kind of player who breaks plans. Doesn't matter what shape you're in defensively—he can undo you with a flick."
Wenger nodded at that, his expression tightening just a fraction. "He has been excellent—technically gifted and tactically intelligent. Ranieri has given him freedom, but also structure."
"And Schmeichel?" Özil added now, folding his arms across his chest. "Massive. They'd have dropped a dozen points already without him. Saves in big moments. Good with his feet. And like Francesco said about Vardy—he plays like he's got something to prove. That's dangerous."
The press officer gave a small nod to another journalist across the aisle, a senior writer from one of the London papers.
"Arsène, what does Leicester's rise say about the Premier League this season? Is it about inconsistency in the traditional big clubs, or are they just rewriting the script?"
Wenger took a moment.
"I think it says more about Leicester than it does about the other clubs," he said finally. "Yes, the league has been unpredictable. Yes, certain clubs—ourselves included—have had to adapt, to reshape. But Leicester's rise has not been an accident. They are compact, they transition quickly, and they believe. Sometimes that is the most important thing. Belief."
Francesco nodded again, arms folded, expression thoughtful now. "And to be fair to them," he said, "they've beaten good teams. They've taken points from United, from Tottenham, from Chelsea. This isn't luck."
Özil added, "And they're not playing like underdogs anymore. They're taking the game to people. Like they know they belong."
A few more pens scribbled hurriedly.
One reporter near the back called out, "Francesco, would you say you see them as title contenders now?"
There was a pause—just long enough to feel the weight of the question.
Francesco leaned forward.
"I think anyone who's still calling them a fluke isn't watching the games," he said plainly. "They're in the fight. Maybe they don't have the biggest squad. Maybe they don't have the experience. But that hasn't stopped them yet."
He glanced at Wenger, then back at the room.
"We respect them. You have to. And personally? I love it. Makes the league better. Makes us sharper."
Özil gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Also helps us keep our eyes open. Can't afford to slip."
A few knowing chuckles rippled through the reporters.
Wenger added one last note. "It reminds us all—football is not mathematics. It is played on emotion. On cohesion. And when you have players who are willing to fight for every minute, sometimes you don't need a billion-pound squad. You need unity. They have that."
A hum of agreement spread through the room. The Leicester question—like Leicester themselves—had become impossible to ignore.
After a few more questions about upcoming fixtures, rotation plans for the FA Cup, and injury updates, the press officer raised her hand and said, "Last question."
A Spanish journalist leaned forward. "Mesut, is this the best football you've played since coming to England?"
Özil gave a small smirk. "Let's just say… it helps to have someone who finishes what I start."
He jerked his head toward Francesco, who chuckled and nudged him with his elbow.
The room dissolved into light laughter as the players rose and began to unclip their microphones.
Francesco lingered briefly near the backdrop, tucking the Man of the Match trophy under one arm again. Wenger gave him a small nod, one of those silent exchanges that needed no explanation. Özil clapped him on the shoulder, muttering something in German that made him grin.
Then they made their way out of the room together, the noise of the press fading behind them.
Out in the corridor, the night air filtered through the slightly ajar loading dock nearby. It was cold—brisk enough to make Francesco pull his jacket tighter—but he felt warm under the surface. Not from the heat of the match anymore, but from something deeper.
The sense that this season was building into something more.
He glanced sideways at Özil. "Still think Leicester will fall off?"
Özil shrugged, eyes thoughtful. "Maybe. But even if they do… they've already changed everything."
Francesco nodded.
"They've made it real."
And with that, they walked back down the corridor toward the dressing room, the scent of liniment and victory still hanging in the air. Arsenal were top of the table. Francesco had delivered again. But they all knew: Leicester were still chasing.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 28
Goal: 42
Assist: 6
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9