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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.
The clock ticked into the 28th minute, the match already simmering on the edge of something dangerous. Every challenge between Francesco and the Madrid defenders carried more venom than the last. Every glance between him and Ramos was a duel of its own.
And then it happened.
Francesco had just spun off Pepe with a clever feint, Özil threading a ball into his stride. He surged forward, heart pounding, the green ahead of him opening for the first time all night. But he didn't see Ramos coming from behind — or maybe he did, but too late.
The Madrid captain lunged, studs out, scissoring recklessly toward the back of Francesco's ankle.
The impact was sickening. A crack of leather against bone. Francesco's leg buckled, his body twisted, and he went down with a cry that ripped straight out of his chest.
The San Siro erupted — boos, gasps, screams — a storm breaking all at once.
The referee's whistle shrieked immediately. He sprinted into the scene, hand already reaching for his pocket.
Francesco rolled onto his side, clutching his ankle, his face twisted with pain.
Cazorla was the first to him, skidding to his knees, hands on Francesco's shoulder. "¡Capitán, dime! Tell me, are you okay?" His voice cracked with worry.
But Francesco's jaw was clenched too tight for words.
Behind them, chaos exploded.
Arsenal shirts swarmed Ramos in an instant — Sánchez shoving him hard in the chest, Walcott screaming in his face, Van Dijk stepping up like a mountain, ready to tear Madrid's captain apart. Nacho Monreal, normally calm, was red with fury, shouting at the referee, jabbing his finger toward Ramos as if to say that's a red, how can it not be?
Madrid players rushed in just as fast. Pepe grabbed Sánchez by the collar, pulling him back. Ronaldo waded in, arms spread, smirking like a man enjoying the chaos. Casemiro shoved Cazorla aside when he tried to intervene, sparking another round of shouts. Luka Modrić tried to hold Bale back as he squared up to Van Dijk.
It was a tinderbox, and one spark away from all-out brawl.
The referee blew his whistle again and again, voice raised — "¡Basta! Enough!" — as he forced his way through the mass of bodies. His yellow card was already in his hand.
He held it up high, the plastic glinting under the floodlights, and pointed it squarely at Ramos.
The stadium roared in outrage. Arsenal fans in the San Siro let loose a deafening chorus of boos, whistling, screaming, "Red! Red! Red!"
Wenger was on his feet in the technical area, arms spread wide, fury etched across his face. "That's a red! That's a red, you know it!" he shouted, his French accent heavy in the heat of the moment. Beside him, Steve Bould was nearly stepping onto the pitch, pointing furiously at the referee.
Ramos, still breathing heavy from the tackle, smirked and spread his arms innocently. He pointed at the ball, shaking his head. "I touched it. I touched it!" he barked.
But nobody believed him.
Francesco still hadn't gotten up. The referee, realizing the danger, turned and waved urgently to the Arsenal bench. The medics sprinted out, carrying their kits, their faces sharp with concern.
Cazorla stayed with Francesco, holding his hand tight. "Don't move, hermano. Medic's coming. Just breathe." His small frame leaned over protectively, shielding his captain from the chaos raging just meters away.
Kanté crouched beside them, eyes wide with worry. He looked toward the touchline, waving his arms to the medics, urging them to hurry.
Above it all, in the VIP box, Leah shot to her feet the moment Ramos went crashing through Francesco's ankle. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. "No, no, no—!" she gasped, her voice trembling.
Beside her, Mike and Sarah — Francesco's parents — stood as if jolted by electricity. Mike slammed his fist against the glass barrier, eyes locked on his son writhing on the pitch. Sarah's face crumpled, tears already welling.
Leah's parents, David and Amanda, were on their feet too, exchanging looks of dread. Amanda reached instinctively for Leah's hand, gripping it tight, but Leah was too focused on the field, her knuckles white against the glass.
Jacob, Leah's brother, leaned forward with his hands gripping the railing, face pale, jaw locked. He had seen Francesco rise from tackles before, seen him shrug off bruises and fouls. But this one — this one looked different.
Down on the pitch, the medics reached Francesco. One dropped to his knees, already pulling off Francesco's boot, the other probing carefully at his ankle. The cameras zoomed in mercilessly, broadcasting every flicker of pain across Francesco's face onto screens around the world.
The Arsenal fans couldn't stand it. They booed Ramos with a venom that rattled the air, chanting his name like a curse. "Ra-mos OUT! Ra-mos OUT!"
The Madrid end responded with whistles, clapping their captain's back as if he'd done his job. Ronaldo laughed, shaking his head, mouthing to Francesco, "Stay down, stay down."
Francesco heard it. Even through the pain, his head jerked up, his eyes narrowing like a blade.
The medic touched his ankle gently, and Francesco hissed, biting down hard on his lip. But when the man asked, "Do you want to come off?" Francesco shook his head violently.
"No," he rasped. His voice was hoarse but firm. "No. Tape it. I play."
Cazorla's face softened with relief, but worry still lingered in his eyes. "Are you sure? That looked—"
"I said I play," Francesco snapped, though not at Santi, not really. More at the universe, more at Ramos, more at fate itself for daring to threaten his night.
The medic wrapped his ankle quickly, tight and firm, layers of white tape circling until the joint looked like a cast. Francesco gritted his teeth with every pull.
Above, Leah was trembling. "He can't—he can't keep going, not on that," she whispered, but her voice was swallowed by the thunder of the crowd. Mike placed a hand on her shoulder, his own face hard, eyes refusing to look away.
On the pitch, Arsenal players still seethed. Van Dijk had to be pulled back twice from Ramos, his Dutch fury barely restrained. Sánchez kept shouting at the referee, "Red! Red! That's a red!" Özil, usually calm, looked shaken, running a hand through his hair as he stared at Francesco being treated.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Francesco pushed the medics away and stood. Slowly, gingerly at first, then with a little more weight. He limped once, twice — then forced himself into a jog. The Arsenal end exploded with applause, chanting his name.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
He lifted his fist to them, pain in his eyes but fire burning brighter still.
Ramos watched from a few yards away, expression unreadable. But Francesco met his gaze and mouthed, clear as day: You'll regret that.
On the sideline, the medics jogged back toward the Arsenal bench, their kits rattling. Wenger met them halfway, his face tight with worry, his long frame leaning forward as though the answer in their mouths might decide the fate of the night.
"Well?" he demanded in clipped French-accented English. "What is it?"
The lead medic, a wiry man with a calmness only battle-hardened staff could wear, didn't waste time. "It's not broken. Not twisted either. Just a heavy knock — like being hit by a hammer. He'll be sore, but no structural damage. He can play through it. The pain should fade in time."
Wenger exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. His palms brushed across his forehead, wiping sweat that hadn't been there a moment ago. For all his poker-faced composure, the old man had been seconds from seeing his entire plan shredded before his eyes.
"Merci, thank you," Wenger muttered, already turning back to the touchline, his gaze snapping again to Francesco. The boy was back on his feet. Limping, yes, but with that fire in his eyes that Arsène knew so well — the fire of a man who'd rather die on the pitch than leave it.
And Wenger allowed himself the smallest of smiles. Good. That's my captain.
Back on the field, Francesco's blood boiled hot enough to burn through the pain. He didn't even want to wait for the sting to ease. He wanted the ball — now.
Özil, sensing it, drifted deeper into midfield to collect possession. With one glance forward, he saw his captain's raised hand, the demand in his eyes. Özil slid the pass into him, crisp and deliberate.
Francesco took it on the half-turn. Ramos stepped in immediately, aggressive, scenting weakness. But Francesco wasn't weak — he was furious.
The ball rolled under his studs, his body dropping low. At the last second, just as Ramos lunged, Francesco spun — a perfect Cruyff turn, cheeky and sharp. The Madrid captain stumbled, left clawing at shadows.
Gasps burst from the stands. Francesco didn't wait to admire it. He pushed forward, three strides and he was at the edge of the box. He let fly with his right foot, the ball screaming low toward the near post.
Navas was sharp, though. The Costa Rican keeper flung himself down, hand snapping out to claw the strike away. The rebound skidded into the six-yard box, but Pepe booted it clear before Walcott could pounce.
Francesco snarled, slapping his thigh in frustration. Close — so close. The Arsenal fans howled encouragement, chanting his name again, louder, fiercer.
Madrid responded instantly. They shifted the ball wide, Modrić to Bale, Bale into space, then a sharp cutback across to Ronaldo.
The Portuguese talisman ghosted inside Van Dijk with terrifying ease, and suddenly there was daylight. Ronaldo wound back his cannon of a right foot, the stadium drawing a collective breath.
Boom. The shot screamed toward the top corner.
But Van Dijk wasn't done. From nowhere, the Dutchman hurled himself across, stretching every inch of his massive frame. The ball clipped his shin and spun just enough to deflect over the bar.
"VIRGIL!" Francesco roared, pounding his fist in the air at his teammate. Van Dijk just nodded, calm as if he hadn't just saved Arsenal's Champions League dreams with one desperate lunge.
The corner came and went, cleared by Koscielny, and Arsenal breathed again. The game throbbed with adrenaline, every second a surge of life and death.
And then, in the 37th minute, the moment arrived.
It began innocently — Özil again, drifting between Madrid's midfield lines, the ball glued to his boots. He looked up once, twice, scanning. Pepe was tight on Francesco. Ramos shadowed, wary.
But Özil saw something they didn't.
Francesco dropped a shoulder, faking left, then spun to the right. Pepe bit. Ramos stepped forward to cover. In that instant, Özil slid the ball through a gap that barely existed — a through ball carved like art, slicing Madrid in two.
Francesco was gone.
He broke the line, his legs pumping, the pain in his ankle forgotten. His chest thundered, his breath roared in his ears, but all he saw was green grass and the white of Navas ahead.
The keeper rushed forward, arms spreading, eyes locked on the ball.
One touch to steady. Another to draw Navas closer. And then — bang. A strike low and true, arrowed past the keeper's hip and into the back of the net.
The net bulged. The Arsenal end of the San Siro detonated. Red flares, flags, bodies tumbling over seats in wild celebration. The sound was an earthquake, tearing across the stadium, drowning Madrid's whistles and gasps.
Francesco didn't stop. He didn't even slow. He sprinted straight to the corner flag, straight toward the sea of Madrid fans, their faces twisted with shock and rage.
He skidded to a stop, chest heaving, eyes blazing — and then he leapt.
He twisted mid-air, arms flung wide, his body landing with a thunderclap of energy. And from his lungs came the roar — deep, primal, mocking.
"SSSSSIIIIIIIIIIIIUUUUUUUUUUUU!"
The Madrid end exploded in fury. Bottles and paper cups rained down. Boos screamed like daggers. But Francesco stood tall, arms spread in Ronaldo's own iconic celebration — right in front of the Portuguese's fans, right in his house.
The cameras captured everything. Ronaldo's face — frozen between disbelief and fury. Ramos, livid, pointing and shouting at the referee. Pepe trying to drag teammates back before they lost their heads.
And Francesco? He just smiled. A cold, sharp smile.
Back in the VIP box, Leah's hands were on her head, her eyes wide with both shock and pride. She laughed, half in disbelief, half in joy, before clapping furiously, shouting so loud her throat burned.
Mike and Sarah were hugging, Sarah's tears now ones of pride. David and Amanda clapped too, Jacob pounding the railing with both fists. The whole box was alive, shaking with adrenaline.
On the pitch, Francesco jogged back toward the halfway line, his teammates piling onto him, slapping his head, shoving him in delight. Özil wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "You crazy bastard," he laughed, voice drowned by the roar. "But I love you."
The scoreline flashed on the massive screen above the San Siro.
Arsenal 1 – 0 Real Madrid (37' Francesco Lee)
The San Siro was still trembling from the aftershocks of Francesco's audacious goal and his mocking Siuuu celebration. The cameras kept replaying it, each angle sharper than the last — the net rippling, Navas sprawled helpless, Francesco soaring and landing like a man who'd just stolen Cristiano Ronaldo's crown right in front of him. Arsenal fans lived it like a religious moment. Madrid's end seethed like a cauldron about to boil over.
But the match didn't stop to breathe. It couldn't. This was a Champions League knockout night — no time for poetry, only for blood and thunder.
Real Madrid responded the only way Real Madrid know how: by throwing everything forward.
Within minutes, the famous BBC — Bale, Benzema, Cristiano — began to bare their teeth. Arsenal had drawn first blood, and Madrid's response was a fury no defense should ever want to face.
It began with Bale. The Welshman hugged the right touchline, his acceleration like a whip crack as he blew past Monreal. He chopped the ball onto his left, then ripped a cross into the six-yard box. Benzema met it clean, rising like a tower, his forehead thudding against the ball.
The San Siro gasped — but Cech was there. The big man reacted in a flash, thrusting out a strong palm to swat the header away. Koscielny hacked clear under pressure, the Frenchman's voice cutting the air as he barked his teammates back into shape.
Then later Cristiano drifted inside, roaming like a shark smelling blood. Modrić picked him out, and suddenly the Portuguese was squaring up against Van Dijk. A feint left, a shimmy right — then a rocket unleashed from twenty-five yards.
The ball bent like a missile toward the top corner. The Arsenal fans gasped in horror.
But Cech wasn't done. He flung himself full stretch, fingertips grazing leather, pushing it just wide. The veteran's body crashed against the turf, the sound swallowed by an eruption of red cheers.
Francesco, still buzzing from his goal, turned back and roared, pointing at his keeper. "PETR! GRANDE!"
Cech didn't even celebrate. He just stood, calm, adjusting his gloves. For him, it was just another day at work.
Madrid smelled an equalizer. Benzema dropped deep, dragging Koscielny out of line. Ronaldo darted into the gap, Modrić threading the needle with a pass only he could see. Ronaldo was in.
One-on-one with Cech. The world slowed.
Cristiano wound up — but before he could strike, Van Dijk came storming across. The Dutchman's legs telescoped, his boot slicing clean through ball before body. Ronaldo tumbled, screaming for a foul, but the referee waved it away. Arsenal fans roared approval, fists punching the Milanese sky.
Van Dijk didn't gloat. He just turned, face stone cold, barking at his teammates: "Wake up!"
Still, the waves kept coming. Madrid weren't the kind of beast you silence with one goal. They circled, snarled, and in the 43rd minute, they finally struck back.
It started innocently, as many Madrid goals do. Bale, once again tormenting Monreal, slipped inside with that thundering stride. This time, instead of crossing, he cut the ball sharply across the top of the box.
And there he was.
Sergio Ramos.
The villain of the night. The man who had nearly snapped Francesco's ankle in two. The same man who wore the armband of Madrid with pride, feeding on chaos like oxygen.
He ghosted forward, not tracked in time, and Bale's pass found him perfectly at the edge of the area. Ramos didn't hesitate. He swung his weaker left foot — but you wouldn't know it. The strike was clean, searing, knifing low past Cech's outstretched glove and into the far corner.
The net rippled.
1–1.
The Real Madrid end of the San Siro detonated. White shirts surged to their feet, flares lit, songs screamed into the night. Ramos turned away in savage triumph, sprinting toward the touchline.
He thumped his chest, roared at the Madrid fans, then — cruelly, deliberately — pointed at Francesco as he shouted something venomous.
The message was clear: You celebrate like Ronaldo? I score like Ronaldo. And I'm still here.
The Madrid players swarmed him — Pepe, Cristiano, Bale all piling in, slapping the back of their warrior captain.
On the Arsenal side, devastation. Koscielny punched the turf in frustration. Monreal held his head, muttering curses under his breath. Cech stood frozen, replaying the flight of the ball in his mind, hands on his hips.
And Francesco? He just stared.
Stared at Ramos, who glared back with eyes like knives.
The San Siro hummed with venom now. The noise wasn't just cheering; it was a battlefield roar. Every duel, every breath, every tackle between Francesco and Ramos had been escalating, and now — with both men on the scoresheet, with tempers boiling — it felt like destiny that the night would end with one of them broken, triumphant, or both.
Up in the VIP box, Leah's nails dug into her palms, her breath shallow. "Not him," she whispered, voice tight. "Not Ramos. Anyone but him."
Her father, David, muttered grimly, "That man… he lives for these moments."
Mike, Francesco's father, didn't take his eyes off the pitch. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. "Then my son better take it from him," he said through gritted teeth.
Sarah glanced at Leah, tears still trembling in her eyes. She reached out and gripped the young woman's hand. "He will. You know he will."
Leah swallowed hard, eyes never leaving the figure of her lover standing at the center circle, chest heaving, pain in his ankle and fire in his eyes.
On the pitch, Francesco jogged back, his face unreadable. Özil touched his arm lightly. "Calm, Frankie. It's still level."
But Francesco shook his head. "No, Mesut. It's war."
The game didn't so much settle after Ramos's equalizer as it simmered — a cauldron bubbling with too much heat, threatening to spill over with every touch.
Francesco's blood still thundered in his veins. His ankle throbbed with every step, but the fire inside him dulled the pain. Every time he glanced across the pitch, Ramos was there, and the Spaniard's smirk only sharpened Francesco's edge.
The closing minutes of the first half were like trench warfare. Madrid pressed high, throwing their weight forward in waves. Arsenal absorbed, scrambled, clawed. Every interception was a reprieve, every clearance a gasp of air before being dragged back underwater.
Cristiano tried again in the 44th, cutting inside Koscielny before unleashing another venomous drive. It whistled just wide. Benzema followed up minutes later, meeting a Marcelo cross, but his volley sliced harmlessly into the night.
For Arsenal, counterattacks flickered but didn't catch fire. Sánchez tried to slip Walcott in behind once, but Pepe cut across with a ruthless slide. Francesco himself had one half-chance — Özil lofted a hopeful ball, and Francesco tried to chest it down on the edge of the box, but Casemiro barged into him, taking man and ball. The referee waved play on, ignoring the furious shouts from red shirts.
The San Siro crowd lived every heartbeat, torn between awe and fury, prayers and curses. On one side, Madrid's white wall roared with confidence, their songs rising in defiance. On the other, Arsenal's traveling faithful sang louder still, voices hoarse but hearts unbroken.
The referee's whistle finally cut through the storm.
Halftime. 1–1.
The players didn't clap or nod. There was no handshake, no casual chatter as they walked. This wasn't one of those games.
Francesco yanked at his armband, chest heaving, his shirt soaked through. He glanced once more at Ramos, the two captains' eyes locking like swords clashing in silence. Ramos smirked. Francesco didn't blink.
Then, together with his teammates, he turned toward the tunnel.
Inside, the walk was a blur. Arsenal players filed through with shoulders tense, mutters in three different languages mixing into the air. The Madrid fans near the tunnel jeered mercilessly, spitting curses and insults in Spanish. Bottles rattled against the tunnel wall, but the Arsenal players ignored them, their boots thudding against concrete as they descended into the underbelly of the San Siro.
The dressing room door slammed shut behind them.
It was as if the world outside ceased to exist. The air inside was heavy, thick with sweat, the smell of damp shirts, liniment, adrenaline. Boots scraped against the floor as players collapsed onto benches. Some buried their heads in towels. Others cursed under their breath.
Francesco didn't sit immediately. He paced, limping slightly, his fists still clenched. His teammates' eyes followed him — they all knew how much he was carrying, how much he demanded of himself.
"Sit down, captain," Cazorla murmured, patting the space beside him. "Let them look at you."
Francesco finally dropped onto the bench, his chest still rising and falling like a man not ready to rest. The medics were already waiting.
One crouched at his feet, gently tugging his boot off. The room went quiet for a moment as they worked. Tape was cut, unwrapped, peeled away. The ankle was swollen slightly, red from the impact.
"How bad?" Wenger's voice cut the air. The manager stood near the tactics board, arms crossed, eyes locked on the medic. His face carried no softness, only the hard edge of a man balancing concern and necessity.
The medic pressed gently along the ankle joint. Francesco hissed, biting down on his lip. The whole room stiffened.
"Not broken," the medic confirmed, repeating what he'd told Wenger earlier on the sideline. "No ligament tear. Just a hard knock, heavy bruising. He'll be in pain, but it's not structural. He can carry on."
Wenger exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping in relief. He nodded once, curtly. "Good. Then tape him again. Tight."
The medic nodded, pulling fresh rolls from his kit. He began wrapping Francesco's ankle methodically, each pull of the tape stiff, firm, building a white armor around the joint. Francesco stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
Wenger finally turned to the rest of the squad. He stepped forward, voice cutting through the room like a blade.
"Écoutez-moi. Listen."
Every head lifted. Silence fell, broken only by the faint ripping of tape.
"We have survived their storm. They came at us with everything. But we are still here. And we are not behind." His eyes moved from Van Dijk to Koscielny, from Sánchez to Özil, from Cazorla to Walcott. "We are level. And now we have them where we want them."
He jabbed a finger toward the tactics board, where magnetic pieces showed Madrid's shape.
"They attack with fullbacks high. Marcelo, Carvajal — they leave space. Casemiro stays, but he cannot cover everything. This is where we kill them. Quick transitions. One, two passes. Mesut—" Wenger's gaze locked on Özil. "You find the space. You find him." He gestured at Francesco, who was still being taped.
Francesco's head lifted, eyes sharp. Wenger met his gaze, and for a second the old manager's mask slipped, pride flickering in his eyes.
"You have already hurt them once. You can hurt them again. But not alone. Not alone. Alexis, Theo — you must run. Stretch them. Virgil, Laurent — stay compact. No gifts. None."
He slammed his palm against the board for emphasis. "They live on mistakes. Do not give them one."
The players nodded, voices low but unified. "Oui, boss. Yes, coach. Got it."
Wenger's tone softened, just slightly. "You have shown courage already. Francesco playing with pain, Petr saving us, Virgil blocking, Alexis fighting for every ball. This is Arsenal. This is what we are."
He stepped back, folding his arms. "Now finish it."
The words hung in the air, filling the players' chests like oxygen.
The medic finished wrapping Francesco's ankle, giving it a final tug before patting his knee. "Done. It'll hold. But it will hurt."
Francesco finally spoke, his voice low but steel-edged. "Pain is nothing. Victory is everything."
The room went silent again, the weight of his words pressing into everyone. Then Sánchez grinned, slapping him on the back. "That's my captain."
Özil chuckled softly. "Just don't try another Ronaldo celebration if you score. You've already stolen one crown tonight."
Francesco smirked, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Maybe I'll take two."
The room erupted in laughter, tension breaking for just a moment. But beneath it all, every man knew the truth: the second half would decide everything. And in the heart of it all, Francesco — bruised, battered, burning — was ready to lead them into the fire.
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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: 60
Goal: 80
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