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But inside Francesco, the storm was real. Tomorrow, he knew, he would have to make good on his words — not just for Arsenal, not just for himself, but for everyone who had now hitched their hopes to his boots.
Morning arrived heavy with history.
The city of Milan stirred early, though it had hardly slept. The air was thick with chants, with the crackle of anticipation, with that strange hum only football can summon when the world turns its eyes to one place. Francesco woke before his alarm, just as he had the day before, his heart already tapping out a rhythm in his chest.
For a moment, he simply lay still, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room. He thought of all the headlines, of all the noise — I HATE MADRID, IBIZA DERBY, FRANCESCO'S PROMISE. He thought of Leah's last words on the phone before she hung up the night before: "Play free, love. Don't let them chain you with their noise."
It steadied him.
He rose, washed, and put on his Arsenal tracksuit. When he stepped out of his room, the corridor was already alive with teammates — Sánchez with his headphones around his neck, humming softly; Koscielny moving with that deliberate calm of a captain; even Giroud unusually quiet, though his smile flickered the moment Francesco passed.
Downstairs, breakfast was served in a private hall. Plates of eggs, fruit, bread, and coffee spread across tables. But it wasn't the food that filled the room — it was the tension, humming like static. The players ate in small pockets, conversations low, as if saving their voices for later.
Francesco sat with Özil and Bellerín. Mesut picked at scrambled eggs, his face unreadable as always, while Hector scrolled his phone, chuckling at some meme of Ronaldo photoshopped onto a jet ski with the caption "See you in Ibiza."
Francesco managed a smile, but his appetite was thin. He forced himself to eat anyway. He needed the fuel.
After breakfast, the schedule was strict. They moved to the hotel gym for light work — stretching, mobility, short bursts on the bike. Wenger believed in keeping the body warm, but not exhausted, on matchday.
Francesco pushed through his sets with mechanical focus. His legs felt sharp, responsive. Every stretch, every jump, every spin on the bike fed into the growing certainty that his body was ready. But the mind — that was another beast. Images of Ramos crunching into tackles, of Casemiro shadowing him like a ghost, flickered behind his eyes.
Kanté jogged beside him on the treadmill, sweat beading on his forehead, utterly calm. "We win today," N'Golo said in his clipped, simple tone, as though speaking of the weather.
Francesco nodded. "We must."
Kanté gave him a rare grin. "Then we will."
—
By the afternoon, they gathered in a conference room at the hotel for the tactical briefing. The room was set up like a classroom — projector, whiteboard, rows of chairs. The players filed in, notebooks and pens ready, though few would actually write.
Wenger stood at the front, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn't begin immediately; he let the silence settle, let every player's attention gravitate toward him.
Finally, he spoke.
"This is the moment we dreamed of. The moment we worked for." His voice was low, calm, but carried a steel that cut through the air. "Real Madrid are strong, yes. They are history, yes. But they are also men. Just men. And tonight, they face you."
He clicked the remote, and the projector lit up with Madrid's lineup. Names flashed across the screen: Ronaldo. Bale. Benzema. Modric. Kroos. Casemiro. Ramos. Pepe. Marcelo. Carvajal. Navas.
"Watch them," Wenger said, pointing to the screen. "Respect them, but do not fear them. We know how they play. Modric and Kroos — they control tempo. Do not give them time. Press them. Force them sideways. Casemiro will sit deep, but he cannot cover all of you."
He gestured to the wide areas. "Marcelo and Carvajal push high. That is their strength — and their weakness. Hit them there. Hit them quickly."
His eyes found Francesco. "And you. Your runs must be perfect. Between Ramos and Pepe, there are moments — half-seconds — where they lose shape. That is where Mesut will find you. That is where you finish."
The session went on for nearly an hour, Wenger and Bould drilling in the details. Defensive shifts, set-piece assignments, pressing triggers. But it wasn't the tactics alone that settled into Francesco's bones — it was the sense that Wenger believed, utterly, in them. In him.
When the meeting ended, silence lingered a moment before the players rose. There was no applause, no shouts. Just nods, quiet words, a shared resolve.
Evening crept in slowly, golden light spilling across Milan. The bus was set to leave for San Siro in less than an hour. Players began changing into their matchday suits, the black-and-red Arsenal ties crisp against white shirts.
But before they could go, Francesco felt a tug in his chest. He couldn't let the day pass without speaking — not just playing his part on the pitch, but as one of them, one of the leaders.
He asked the staff for a moment, then gathered the squad in a side room of the hotel. It wasn't formal — no podium, no whiteboard. Just chairs, tables pushed aside, the air heavy with expectation.
Francesco stood in the middle, his hands at his sides, his voice raw but steady.
"Brothers," he began. "Yesterday, you heard what I said at the press conference. You heard me promise the world that I would give you a gift if we beat Madrid by a big score."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room, lightening the tension. Giroud raised a hand. "How big we talking, eh? Three? Four?"
Francesco cracked a grin. "As big as we can make it. But hear me — even if we win by one goal, even if it is scrappy, even if it is ugly… the gift will be yours."
The room stilled again, listening.
"Because for me, this is not about promises to the press. This is about us. This is about what Madrid tried to do to me last summer — how they let the world think I was ready to betray you, betray this club. They painted me as a traitor, and I lived with that image. But I never betrayed you. I never betrayed Arsenal. And I never will.
"This club — this badge — it is my life. I will play here until I retire, or until the day the club decides they don't need me anymore. That is my vow. So when I say I hate Madrid, I mean it. Not because of their history. Not because of their players. But because of what they tried to take from me — from us."
His voice cracked, just slightly, but it only made the words sharper.
"So tonight, we go out there not just to play a final. We go out there to show the world who we are. To show them Arsenal is not afraid of Madrid, not afraid of anyone. We go to San Siro not as underdogs, not as outsiders, but as a family who fights for each other."
He looked around the room — at Sánchez's burning stare, at Özil's calm focus, at Giroud's grin, at Koscielny's nod.
"Whatever happens, we walk out together. We fight together. We win together. And when we do — whether by one goal or by five — the world will know that Arsenal are not just here to play history. We are here to make it."
The room erupted. Cheers, applause, fists pounding on tables. Players rose to their feet, clapping, shouting, some embracing him. The tension that had hung like a storm cloud broke into fire.
Wenger, standing quietly at the door, simply watched. His face was unreadable, but his eyes softened as he saw the way Francesco had lit the room.
When the noise settled, Wenger stepped forward. "Well said," he murmured. Then, louder: "Now, gentlemen — let us go to San Siro."
The clock in the hotel lobby ticked past 17:15 when the Arsenal squad began filing out toward the team bus. They were dressed in sharp black suits, the red-and-white ties slicing through the dark fabric like a banner of defiance. Photographers clustered at the edges of the driveway, shutters popping in a steady rhythm as though already trying to capture history before it happened.
At 17:30 sharp, the bus eased out of the hotel gates, engines humming low, tinted windows hiding the nervous energy that swirled inside.
The streets of Milan seemed to pulse as they rolled through. Fans lined the pavements, some in the blinding white of Real Madrid, others in the proud red and white of Arsenal. Scarves twirled, chants rang, flags waved like restless fire. Some locals perched on balconies, leaning over to wave or film as the bus crawled through the thickening crowd.
Inside, Francesco sat two rows from the front, headphones in but no music playing. His phone buzzed in his palm. A message flashed across the screen.
Leah Williamson 💕:
"We're here. VIP box at San Siro. Me, mum, dad, Jacob, and your parents too. All of us together. We'll be watching you."
A second message followed with a photo: Leah in a red Arsenal jersey, scarf wrapped tight around her shoulders, grinning between Mike and Sarah, his parents, and her own mum Amanda and dad David. Jacob was throwing a mock punch at the camera, as if warming up his own version of a fight.
Francesco's chest tightened. He stared at the photo for a long second, letting the sight anchor him. His family, her family — all together, here, in this city where destiny felt like it was waiting just ahead.
He typed back quickly, thumbs trembling.
Francesco:
"Thank you for being here. Tonight is for all of you. I'll see you after we lift it."
He slipped the phone away, turned his eyes back to the window. The city was thick with divided loyalties — white and red, songs clashing in the streets like distant waves.
"Big night, eh?" Giroud leaned across the aisle, his deep voice breaking the silence.
Francesco allowed a small nod. "Biggest."
Giroud grinned. "Don't worry. We'll feed you. You'll score. We'll dance in Ibiza."
The words carried across a few rows, sparking quiet chuckles. Even Wenger, sitting stiffly at the front, allowed himself a faint smile at the ridiculousness of it.
The bus rolled on, finally reaching the outer ring of San Siro. Security cordons tightened, police lined the route, their presence heavy but necessary. The closer they got, the louder the noise became — a wall of sound pressing against the tinted glass. White banners draped one side of the road, red the other.
When the bus stopped, the players stood one by one. Bags slung over shoulders, jackets straightened. The door hissed open, and the noise rushed in like a storm.
They stepped out into it, into the din of cameras, chants, and flashing lights. Francesco breathed it in, let it roll through him instead of against him.
The walk down into the belly of San Siro felt almost ceremonial. The tunnels smelled faintly of fresh paint and old sweat, the walls humming with the vibration of 80,000 fans gathering above. Security led them to their dressing room — a large, stark space with rows of lockers, a central table laden with water bottles, fruit, and energy gels.
They changed into training kits, movements efficient, no wasted energy. Boots tightened, tape wrapped, muscles flexed. The atmosphere was taut, not silent but measured — the occasional laugh, the muttered encouragements.
When Wenger gave the nod, they filed out toward the pitch for warm-up.
The first sight of San Siro under floodlights hit Francesco in the chest. The stadium was already roaring, the sheer scale of it pressing down from every side. Flags rippled, chants clashed, and high above, the UEFA banners hung like reminders that this was the pinnacle.
They jogged onto the grass, greeted by cheers and jeers alike. The pitch was immaculate, a perfect stage. Francesco felt the studs bite into it with each step, reassuring, grounding.
They ran their drills, passing triangles, stretches, sprints. From the corner of his eye, Francesco saw Madrid players emerge too, the all-whites glinting under the lights. Ronaldo, tall and broad, chest out like a king surveying his kingdom. Ramos, jaw set, already barking at teammates. Modric, calm and composed, gliding across the turf as if he owned it.
The crowd roared louder as both sides moved, the cameras catching every gesture.
Above it all, the media dissected every second.
Sky Sports had set up in a special studio overlooking the pitch, its glass walls glowing against the night. Inside, Jamie Carragher leaned forward in his chair, excitement buzzing through him. Gary Neville sat opposite, brows drawn, thoughtful. Between them, two guests who represented the heart of the story: Thierry Henry, Arsenal legend, and Raúl González, Real Madrid's eternal captain.
David Jones, the host, set the scene. "Gentlemen, it's finally here. Arsenal, Real Madrid, the Champions League final. Thierry, Raúl — two men who know what it's like to wear these shirts, to live these nights. Let's start with the big story: Francesco Lee's press conference yesterday. He said he hates Madrid, that tonight is personal. Thierry, what do you make of that?"
Henry smiled slowly, leaning back in his chair, his voice a low rumble. "I'll tell you this — I like it. I like it a lot. Because too many times, players hide behind clichés. They say, 'It's just another game.' But Francesco? He's honest. He carries his emotion onto the pitch. You can see it in his goals, in how he plays. And when he says he hates Madrid — that's not about disrespect, it's about fire. It's about loyalty to Arsenal. And trust me, this boy… he will use that tonight."
Carragher nodded eagerly. "It's passion, isn't it? It's raw. And fans love it. Look at the noise it's created — the Ibiza stuff, the memes, Barcelona and United jumping in. This final feels like more than football now."
Gary Neville, ever the pragmatist, shook his head slightly. "Careful, though. Passion can spill over. You're up against Sergio Ramos, Casemiro — they'll be targeting Francesco all night, trying to wind him up, trying to use his emotions against him. He'll need to be smart, not just passionate."
The camera cut to Raúl, who sat calm, composed, his Madrid badge pinned to his lapel. His voice was steady, almost diplomatic. "Madrid does not need to play with emotion. Madrid plays with history. Eleven finals, ten victories. Tonight, it is not about Francesco, or about what he said. It is about the weight of this shirt, the expectation. Arsenal are strong, but Madrid are Madrid. We know how to win these nights."
David Jones leaned in. "But Raúl — Francesco has been unstoppable this season. Golden Boot, decisive in every big game. Is he the danger man Madrid fear most?"
Raúl allowed the faintest smile. "He is talented, yes. He has scored goals, yes. But fear? No. Madrid respects opponents, but does not fear. We have faced Messi, faced Henry, faced legends. Francesco is young. Tonight he will learn what it means to face Madrid in a final."
Henry cut in, shaking his head. "Don't underestimate him, Raúl. That's the mistake everyone makes. Francesco is not just young. He's fearless. He's Arsenal's heart right now. And if Madrid give him half a chance, he will punish them."
Carragher chuckled. "I tell you what, lads, I can't wait. Francesco, Ronaldo, Sanchez, Bale, Özil, Modric — this is what football's about. This is why you dream."
The cameras panned back to the pitch. Francesco jogged to the edge of the box, firing a shot toward goal. It smacked the net with a thump, sending Arsenal fans behind the goal into a frenzy of cheers.
The broadcasters cut to those fans — thousands packed in red, waving flags, singing chants that drowned out even Madrid's famous white wall. Their voices carried across the San Siro, raw and defiant:
"Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal!"
Francesco paused mid-jog, glanced toward the stands, and in that split second spotted them — high in the VIP box, his family and Leah, scarves raised, smiles bright. He lifted a hand, subtle but certain, a gesture just for them.
The Arsenal players trickled back into the dressing room, boots tapping lightly on the concrete as the sound of the San Siro swelled behind them like a storm waiting to break. The energy from the warm-up still clung to them — sweat glistening, lungs slightly heavy, but eyes sharper than ever.
Inside, the air was cool but thick with anticipation. The training kits came off in hurried motions, tossed aside into neat piles, and one by one they slid into the red-and-white armor of the night. The shirts bore the Champions League patches on the sleeves, that iconic star ball shining on their chests. Francesco tugged his over his head slowly, almost reverently, then smoothed it down against his torso. The number 9. The captain's armband waiting for him on the bench.
Wenger stood quietly at first, watching his men prepare. His thin frame leaned on the edge of the central table, arms folded, eyes traveling over each of them as though imprinting the moment in his mind. He let the room breathe for another minute, then cleared his throat. The murmur of boots and tape faded to silence.
"Mes amis," he began, voice steady but carrying an edge that sliced through every ear, "tonight is not about Madrid. It is not about history, about their ten victories, about Ronaldo or Ramos. Tonight is about us."
His eyes flicked to Francesco, then swept across to Van Dijk, Koscielny, Sanchez, all of them.
"We have walked through fire to stand here. Barcelona, Bayern, Atlético — giants. We have fought every step. And now, we face one more mountain. One more ninety minutes. But hear me: they will fear us more than we fear them. Because tonight, we play as Arsenal. Together."
He turned toward the tactics board behind him and lifted the marker. The squeak echoed as he drew the numbers into place.
"Cech," Wenger said, tapping the square between the posts. "The wall behind us. The calm."
"Nacho, Virgil, Laurent, Hector — you are the spine. You are the strength. Keep the line, stay disciplined. Don't let them drag you into chaos."
"Kanté," he said, eyes softening as he looked at the Frenchman, "you are everywhere. Cover, protect, destroy."
"Santi," Wenger's lips curved faintly, "control the rhythm. Make them dance to your tempo. And Mesut…" He tapped the spot just behind the striker. "The vision. The knife. One pass from you can end it all."
He straightened. "On the wings — Alexis, Theo. Be relentless. Be brave. Run at them until they break."
Finally, his gaze settled on Francesco. The room almost seemed to tilt toward him as Wenger spoke.
"And our captain. Our number nine. Francesco, you lead this team not just with goals, but with your heart. Tonight, you carry not only Arsenal, but every dreamer who ever wore this badge. You are our spear. Our voice. Our fight."
The silence after was thick. Everyone knew the stakes, but hearing it from Wenger crystallized it.
Then came the list of substitutes, his final reminders: "David, Per, Francis, Aaron, Jack, Ox, Olivier — stay ready. Every one of you may be called. Finals are won by all, not just eleven."
He set the marker down. "Formation is 4-3-3. Discipline first, courage always. We do this together."
Wenger stepped back. The armband sat waiting on the bench beside Francesco. Slowly, he picked it up, slid it over his bicep, tightened the strap until it clung to him like a second skin. He stood.
His teammates looked to him now. The room demanded it.
Francesco drew a deep breath. "Lads," he began, his voice quieter than usual, forcing them to lean in, to listen. "I don't need to tell you what this means. You feel it. We all do. This… this is why we bleed in training, why we push through injuries, why we sacrifice. Nights like this."
His eyes moved from Cech to Walcott, from Monreal to Van Dijk.
"Madrid think they're the kings. They think finals belong to them. But this is our time. Our family is out there. Our fans — thousands, against eighty thousand. And every single one of them believes in us. Tonight, we don't just play football. Tonight, we write our names in history."
He clenched his fist, holding it up. "For Arsenal. For each other. For everything we've fought for. Let's take it."
The roar that erupted shook the walls. Fists slammed into chests, boots stomped on the floor. "COME ON!" echoed through the room.
Minutes later, the squad lined up in the narrow tunnel beneath the San Siro. The air was damp, smelling of grass and paint, vibrating with the chants pouring from above. The Arsenal line stood shoulder to shoulder, red-and-white kits gleaming under the tunnel lights.
Francesco at the very front, captain's armband tight on his arm. To his right, Ramos stood equally tall, Madrid's white glimmering like armor. Their eyes met for a heartbeat — steel on steel. Neither blinked.
Behind Ramos, Ronaldo shifted his weight, glancing at Francesco with that mix of disdain and curiosity. Modric stared ahead, expression unreadable. Bale rolled his shoulders, already twitching with impatience.
Francesco felt all their eyes, all their judgment, pressing against him. Let them.
The referee lifted his hand. "Alright, gentlemen. Let's go."
The tunnel burst open to light and noise. The Champions League anthem rose, soaring above 80,000 voices, majestic and thunderous. The teams walked side by side, the green pitch glowing like a stage set for war.
Fans roared. Flags whipped. The anthem thundered. Francesco kept his chin high, eyes fixed forward.
They reached the center line, forming up beside the officials. The ritual began: handshakes with the referee. Francesco clasped the official's hand firmly, then turned toward Ramos — and stopped.
His jaw tightened. His hand did not extend.
Shock rippled instantly. Ramos blinked, taken aback, then hardened his stare. Ronaldo lifted his chin, smirking as if to say, "Typical."
Francesco moved down the line, ignoring every white shirt. No handshake for Modric, none for Bale, none even for Ronaldo. Just a curt nod for the referee, then he returned to his spot.
The Arsenal players, watching their captain, followed his lead. One by one, they too withheld their hands. Monreal gave a polite dip of the head but no more. Özil hesitated — a flicker of conflict — but then stood firm. Sánchez folded his arms. Walcott looked straight ahead.
The crowd gasped, the cameras zoomed, the commentators exploded. "Extraordinary scenes here — Arsenal refusing the handshake ritual! Francesco Lee setting the tone with a total snub to Real Madrid!"
The Madrid players bristled. Casemiro muttered something sharp under his breath. Ramos spat to the side, fury barely contained.
But Francesco didn't waver. His face was stone, his message clear: no respect, not tonight.
The photographers scrambled as the Arsenal eleven crouched together for their pre-match photo, arms over shoulders, red-and-white burning against the green. Francesco stood tall in the center, eyes locked on the camera, unflinching.
Then he rose and strode to the middle of the pitch. The referee stood waiting, coin in hand. Ramos was already there, jaw clenched tight.
The coin spun under the lights, glinting as it fell. Francesco called it — "Right."
The referee caught it, revealed it. Francesco's choice. Arsenal to kick off.
The whistle cut through the San Siro like a blade, and suddenly the weight of all the noise collapsed into pure focus. Francesco stood over the ball at the center spot, Özil a few steps to his right, Sánchez wider still. He could feel the grass beneath his boots, still damp from the earlier sprinklers, the faint vibration of 80,000 voices crashing down like thunder around them. He glanced up at his teammates, then back at the referee.
The shrill second whistle pierced, and he nudged the ball back to Cazorla.
The Champions League final had begun.
The opening minutes were chaos disguised as football. Madrid pressed immediately, as if trying to smother Arsenal before they could breathe. Ronaldo drifted in off the left, forcing Bellerín back. Bale tore down the right flank, his pace forcing Monreal into early sprints. Modrić and Kroos snapped passes between themselves like men pulling strings on a puppet show, probing, prodding, searching for gaps.
But Arsenal were not there to be puppets. Kanté, already living up to his impossible reputation, flew across the midfield like a shadow no Madrid player could escape. One second he was nicking the ball from Kroos, the next he was sliding into Ronaldo's path to block a cross. Every time Madrid thought they had daylight, Kanté slammed the door shut.
Then came the first real scare. In the 5th minute, Bale skipped inside Monreal and lashed a strike from twenty-five yards. It bent viciously toward the top corner — until Cech exploded sideways, his gloved hand clawing the ball away. The San Siro gasped. The Arsenal end roared.
"Petr!" Francesco shouted back, pumping a fist in the keeper's direction. The big Czech simply nodded, calm as ever, but his eyes betrayed the fire.
Arsenal answered almost instantly. Özil slipped into space, looked up, and delivered one of those passes that seemed to defy geometry — a curling ball that sliced between Pepe and Ramos and landed perfectly in Walcott's stride. Theo burst forward, lightning down the flank, before cutting inside and drilling low at the near post. Navas got down just in time, parrying with his right arm.
Francesco, already darting across the box, nearly reached the rebound, but Ramos slid in with a crunching clearance. The clash of studs and shin echoed; Francesco stumbled but stayed on his feet, his eyes never leaving the ball.
Ramos smirked as he got up. "Not tonight, chico," he muttered in Spanish.
Francesco didn't flinch. He stepped close, so close Ramos could feel his breath. "We'll see," he replied, calm but sharp enough to cut.
By the 10th minute, it was war. Every duel carried the weight of history. Every run was a gamble with destiny. Pepe and Ramos had clearly made a pact: Francesco was not to have a quiet night.
They clattered him at every chance. In the 12th minute, Francesco pulled wide to collect a long ball from Van Dijk. He cushioned it on his chest, only to feel Pepe's shoulder drive into his back. The impact knocked him off balance, the ball squirting loose, and the referee's whistle came immediately. Foul.
Francesco hit the turf hard but rolled back up, brushing grass off his sleeve. He caught the referee's eye, spread his arms in question.
"No card," the referee said firmly, gesturing calm.
Pepe grinned, unapologetic. "Welcome to the final, little captain."
But Francesco didn't rise to it. He simply walked back into position, chest heaving, storing the moment away like kindling for a fire that would only burn hotter.
Madrid responded with venom. In the 14th, Ronaldo cut inside Bellerín and cracked a shot that looked destined for the far corner. Again Cech was there, fingertips pushing it wide. Another save.
Arsenal countered immediately. Sánchez picked up the loose ball, drove forty yards downfield, then released Francesco with a through pass. He broke the line, surging between Pepe and Ramos, his stride long and hungry. Just as he shaped to shoot, Ramos came sliding across, studs flashing.
The tackle was brutal, all body before ball. Francesco crashed down, the San Siro erupting in fury. The whistle shrieked.
But again, no card.
The Arsenal bench leapt up in protest. Wenger raised both arms, shouting in French and English, his voice drowned out by jeers and whistles. The fans in red howled, chanting "¡Tarjeta! ¡Tarjeta!" — card, card. But the referee waved play on with just the free kick.
Francesco stayed on the ground a moment, his calf burning from the rake of Ramos' studs. Kanté and Van Dijk were instantly there, hauling him up, checking his leg. He brushed them off, jaw tight.
"I'm fine," he muttered. His eyes locked on Ramos. The Madrid captain smirked again, but this time Francesco's glare didn't waver.
The match kept swinging like a pendulum. Every Arsenal chance seemed to summon a Madrid response, and vice versa.
17th minute: Modrić picked out Benzema with a floated cross. The striker met it flush with his forehead, only for Cech to rise, impossibly tall, palms catching and holding firm.
19th minute: Özil threaded another impossible pass, this time into Sánchez, who turned and fired low to the corner. Navas read it perfectly, diving across and smothering.
Four saves each for Cech and Navas, the scoreboard still untouched, but the stadium trembling with every heartbeat.
The first twenty minutes passed like twenty rounds of a heavyweight fight. Punch for punch, block for block. Cech's gloves stung, Navas' jersey clung with sweat. And through it all, Francesco bore the weight of Ramos and Pepe — every jump contested, every touch hammered.
The referee blew for another foul in the 20th, this time Pepe's boot catching Francesco's ankle as he tried to turn. Francesco slapped the grass once in frustration, got up, and walked away without a word.
Madrid players jeered. Their fans whistled. But Francesco's silence was more dangerous than any outburst. Because silence meant he was waiting, and that meant the storm will slowly come.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, and 2016/2017 Premier League
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 59
Goal: 79
Assist: 10
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9