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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.
The whistle shrieked and the second half was alive.
The San Siro seemed louder now, as though the stadium itself had fed on the drama of the first forty-five minutes and grown hungrier. The Italian night was thick with smoke from flares, chants roaring across the divide of red and white against the heaving sea of Madrid's white shirts.
Arsenal kicked off, but they barely touched the ball before the storm came.
Madrid unleashed hell.
From the first seconds, it was obvious: Zidane had told his men at halftime to go for the throat. The BBC — Bale, Benzema, Cristiano — spread out like vultures circling their prey, and behind them, Luka Modrić and Toni Kroos pressed forward, engines purring, ready to pump ammunition into their fearsome front line.
Within thirty seconds, Bale had already roasted Monreal again down the right. He burned past him like a locomotive, his cross arrowing into the six-yard box. Benzema lunged, studs stretching — only for Koscielny to throw himself in front, body twisted, the ball smashing off his ribs and spinning wide.
Arsenal scrambled back into shape.
"Wake up! Wake up!" Francesco bellowed, his voice raw, arms waving at his teammates.
Madrid didn't relent. Modrić glided past Kante, effortless as water slipping between fingers. He popped the ball to Kroos, who clipped a curling ball toward Ronaldo. The Portuguese star leapt, hovering in the air longer than should have been humanly possible, neck muscles snapping through the header.
Straight at goal.
But Petr Čech was a wall. The veteran rose, arms outstretched, palms like steel, and punched the ball clear with authority. The rebound fell to Kroos again, who drilled a volley low — only for Virgil van Dijk's telescopic leg to block it clean, the deflection rolling harmlessly wide.
Madrid pressed harder. The pressure was suffocating. Arsenal were penned in, their fans forced to hold their breath.
Cristiano again, drifting in from the left. Bale again, tearing Monreal to pieces. Kroos dictating tempo, Modrić slicing open lines like a surgeon with his scalpel. The BBC were fed constantly, one chance after another, and yet somehow — somehow — Arsenal bent but did not break.
Minute after minute ticked by, each one a lifetime.
In the 50th, Ronaldo cut inside and unleashed a thunderbolt from twenty yards. Čech, as though carved from the same stone as the goalposts, dove to his right, his fingertips brushing the ball just enough to tip it around the post.
In the 52nd, Benzema wriggled free between Koscielny and Van Dijk, Modrić's lofted pass dropping perfectly over the Frenchman's shoulder. Benzema's volley — sweet, vicious, destined for the bottom corner — was smothered by Čech's sprawling save. The Czech keeper clutched it to his chest like a man rescuing treasure from a thief.
And in the 55th, Bale found Cristiano again, the cross fizzing across the face of goal. Ronaldo lunged, studs sliding, only for Bellerin — finally, desperately — to hook it clear at the last millisecond, his boot nearly grazing Cristiano's shin.
Arsenal hearts thudded louder than the drums in the stands. Every second was a siege.
Francesco felt it in his bones. His ankle was pulsing, hot and swollen under the tight tape, but his lungs burned with something fiercer. He dropped deeper, pressing alongside Kante, shouting himself hoarse, urging every man in red to give more, to fight harder.
Madrid smelled blood, but Arsenal's line held — just.
At the sideline, Arsène Wenger stood like a statue, hands buried deep in his coat, but his eyes blazed. He didn't shout, didn't panic. He trusted. But inside, even his legendary poker face was cracking. He knew — another mistake, and it would all crumble.
And then, slowly, painfully, Arsenal began to breathe again.
It took ten minutes of pure survival — ten minutes of clenched jaws, of last-ditch tackles, of Čech's gloves and Van Dijk's boots, of Kante hurling his body across blades of grass like a soldier in no-man's land.
But at last, in the 56th minute, Arsenal strung together three passes.
It was nothing at first — a clearance from Koscielny, cushioned down by Özil, who threaded it to Sánchez. The Chilean wriggled away from Casemiro, clipped it to Walcott, and suddenly — suddenly — there was space.
Walcott surged, lightning down the right, Madrid defenders scrambling to turn. He slipped the ball across the grass to Francesco, who had hung back just behind the halfway line.
The Arsenal captain took it on the half-turn. Pepe stepped forward, Ramos shifted across. For a heartbeat, Francesco thought of trying to take them on — but no. Not now. Not yet. He drew a foul instead, shielding the ball, letting Ramos clip his ankle.
The whistle blew. Arsenal free kick. Relief, oxygen, space to breathe.
Francesco stayed on the ground for a moment, as his face hidden. The pain was sharp, dagger-like, but he gritted his teeth. He would not let Ramos see weakness. Not now. Not ever.
Özil jogged over, offered a hand, pulled him up. "We ride the storm," the German whispered, his calm like water in Francesco's fire. "Now we play."
And he was right.
From there, Arsenal found their footing again. Each touch steadied them, each pass built confidence. Madrid still probed, still menaced, but the panic had faded. Arsenal had survived the worst of it.
Arsenal had steadied themselves. They had taken Madrid's punches, felt the sting of their blows, yet still stood. And now, they dared to breathe again.
The ball was theirs in the 61st minute.
It began the way all great counterpunches begin: with patience, with grit. Van Dijk won a duel with Benzema on the edge of the box, towering above the Frenchman, his header dropping kindly toward Kanté. The little Frenchman snapped it quickly to Özil, who already had his body angled toward space.
Özil saw the run before it even began.
Alexis Sánchez darted wide, ghosting into that pocket between Casemiro and Carvajal. Özil threaded the ball diagonally, precise as a scalpel, and the Chilean was away — quick, sharp, bristling with intent.
Carvajal scrambled, but Alexis had a yard. That was all he ever needed. The Chilean lowered his head, touched the ball forward, and drove toward the byline.
Francesco was already moving. He could feel it — the blood in his veins, the pull of destiny.
Pepe tracked him. Ramos shadowed. Both men braced for impact.
But Francesco wasn't thinking about them. He was thinking about the ball that was about to leave Alexis Sánchez's boot.
Alexis whipped it — a venomous cross, curving away from Navas, slicing between Carvajal's despairing slide and Casemiro' desperate stretch.
Francesco launched.
His leap was a thing of violence and beauty, body twisting, arms wide, his chest lifted to the floodlights. Pepe rose. Ramos rose. But Francesco rose higher. He seemed to hang in the Milanese night, suspended in defiance of gravity, his eyes fixed on the spinning leather.
Contact.
The thud of skull meeting ball echoed like a gunshot. Francesco's header arrowed past Ramos' shoulder, past Pepe's flailing arm, past Navas' desperate dive.
The net bulged.
The San Siro exploded.
The Arsenal end was a riot of limbs, shirts, voices shredding into the smoke-choked sky. Francesco landed, staggered forward a step, and then ripped his shirt from his chest in a frenzy of emotion. His roar was guttural, primal, a sound that belonged not to a footballer but to a warrior.
He sprinted toward the corner, dragging the Arsenal crest on his bare chest with his hand, beating it like a drum. His teammates swarmed him — Alexis first, leaping onto his back, Özil wrapping arms around his neck, Walcott and Cazorla crushing him in a storm of bodies.
On the scoreboard, the truth blazed bright:
Real Madrid 1 – 2 Arsenal (61' Francesco Lee)
In the VIP box, Leah was crying and laughing all at once, her hands shaking as she clutched Sarah's arm. "He's done it again," she whispered, her voice broken with disbelief. "He's done it again!"
Mike, Francesco's father, was on his feet, bellowing like he was back on the terraces of Highbury in his youth. "That's my boy! That's my boy!"
And Sarah, eyes shimmering, just smiled through her tears. "He's rewriting history."
On the pitch, Ramos pounded the turf in rage. Pepe kicked at the post. Navas hurled the ball into the netting, cursing. Madrid's pride had been wounded. Their fortress, breached again.
But for Francesco, there was no time for reflection. He pulled his shirt back on, sweat glistening on his chest, heart pounding so hard it rattled his ribcage. He caught Ramos' eye, and the Spaniard's glare was a dagger.
Francesco didn't flinch. He smirked.
Zidane reacted quickly. He couldn't allow the tide to shift completely. In the 66th minute, he moved.
Carvajal was hooked — his lungs still burning from chasing Alexis. Danilo was sent on, fresher legs to deal with Sánchez. And more tellingly, Toni Kroos, Madrid's metronome, was withdrawn. In his place, Isco entered, a dribbler, a creator, a man who could pry open a lock with flair rather than patience.
The Bernabéu's faithful had seen this before: Zidane turning to chaos when order wasn't enough.
Wenger, ever the chess player, countered. He waved to the fourth official.
Theo Walcott jogged off, exhausted from sprint after sprint. His replacement was Olivier Giroud, the big Frenchman with the sculpted jaw and a striker's heart.
Moments later, Santi Cazorla — brilliant, brave, but fading — was called to the sideline. Jack Wilshere, finally fit, pulled his shirt down over his chest and sprinted on like a man reborn.
The plan shifted.
Francesco slid out to the right wing, the captain's armband tight on his bicep, while Giroud took the central striker's role. Wilshere dropped in beside Özil, grit and guile side by side.
It was a reshaping of Arsenal's soul — brute strength married to artistry, defiance to resilience.
Francesco flexed his ankle, tested the weight. It hurt like fire, but he embraced it. Pain was proof he was alive, proof he was still in the fight. He tugged at his shirt, squared his shoulders, and barked out at Giroud.
"Hold it up. I'll feed off you. We kill them now."
Giroud nodded, eyes flaring with determination. "Crosses, Frankie. Whip them in. I'll be there."
The battle lines were redrawn.
The San Siro's pulse hadn't slowed; if anything, it beat harder with every tick of the clock. Arsenal had their lead, Madrid had their fury, and the match hovered on a knife's edge where a single mistake could rewrite destiny.
By the 70th minute, Arsenal's new shape was beginning to show itself. Giroud prowled the centre like a lion in a crowded savannah, shoulders broad, chest puffed, ready to contest every high ball. Wilshere had already clattered into Casemiro once, sending a message: Arsenal would not be bullied. And Francesco — now patrolling the right flank — felt the weight of the team's breath on his back. Every sprint, every ball, every glance from Wenger on the sideline carried the same silent command: lead them.
Then came the 71st minute.
It was a moment carved in lightning, sharp and fleeting. Bellerín had won possession on the right touchline, snapping the ball off Marcelo's wandering toes. He wasted no time, whipping it down the flank into Francesco's stride.
The captain didn't hesitate. He killed the ball with a single touch, dragging it forward as his legs stretched into a sprint. The Milanese turf seemed to vibrate beneath his boots as Danilo scrambled to close him down, but Francesco had already leaned into that familiar rhythm — one touch to steady, one glance at the box, one snap of the ankle.
The cross screamed into the penalty area, bending just enough to evade Ramos' leap. Giroud, perfectly positioned, launched upward with all the elegance of a man who lived for this very motion. His head met the ball with a crunch, neck muscles snapping, the trajectory clean and brutal.
Time seemed to slow.
The header arrowed toward the far corner, Navas flinging himself across goal, fingertips stretching, heart pounding.
And then — salvation for Madrid.
The Costa Rican's gloves brushed the ball, just enough to push it wide of the post. Gasps tore from both sets of fans, a chorus of anguish and relief, as the Arsenal end groaned and Madrid's faithful roared back to life.
Francesco clutched his head in his hands, crouching on the touchline for a split-second. Giroud slapped the ground, his beard flecked with sweat, his mouth shaping a curse toward the heavens.
"Close, Oli! So close!" Francesco shouted, running over, hauling his teammate up by the arm. He thumped Giroud's chest, eyes blazing. "Next one, it's yours."
Giroud nodded, jaw tight, breathing like a bull. "Feed me again."
The San Siro simmered. Arsenal had almost killed the game. Almost.
And in football, almost was as dangerous as failure.
By the 75th minute, Madrid struck back.
Cristiano had been simmering all night, every missed chance etching frustration deeper into his face. He drifted wide, collected a ball from Isco, and as he darted inward, Kanté clipped his heels just enough to send him tumbling thirty yards from goal.
The whistle blew. The foul was clear.
Cristiano stood quickly, dusting himself off, his expression unreadable — except to those who knew him. The San Siro lights glinted off the sweat on his temples, his chest heaving, his eyes narrowing at the ball that now sat perfectly still, thirty yards from Čech's goal.
The stadium held its breath.
This was Cristiano's theatre.
He placed the ball with slow precision, adjusting it once, then again, as though searching for its perfect resting place. He stepped back, arms at his sides, legs spread, his body language a pose burned into the memory of football forever.
Čech crouched on his line, eyes locked, gloves twitching. He barked at his wall — Van Dijk, Koscielny, Giroud — to hold firm, to jump, to cover every inch of air between post and post.
Cristiano inhaled. The noise of eighty thousand shrank to silence.
One stride. Two. Three. Strike.
The ball exploded off his boot, a missile of spin and venom. It arced high, dipped suddenly, curling just enough to bypass the wall's desperate leap. It tore downward toward the top corner, screaming like a meteor through the Milanese night.
And then — salvation.
Čech's concentration, razor-sharp. His feet shuffled, his arm extended, his gloves reached. The Czech legend hurled himself, every fibre straining, and with the faintest flick of his fingertips, he tipped the ball over the bar.
The Arsenal fans erupted as if it had been a goal of their own. A symphony of relief, of gratitude, of love for the keeper who refused to yield.
Cristiano scowled, shaking his head, staring at the ball as if betrayed. His hands went to his hips, his jaw clenched. He knew how close it had been.
Francesco jogged back into position, slapping his thigh with his palm. His voice carried, hoarse but certain: "Not tonight, Cristiano! Not tonight!"
By the 77th minute, Zidane made his move again.
Benzema, worn down by Van Dijk's relentless shadow, trudged toward the sideline. The Frenchman had worked, had fought, but tonight was not his night. In his place came Lucas Vázquez, a player not as celebrated, not as feared, but one with endless legs and a knack for tormenting fullbacks.
Madrid's shape shifted. Ronaldo moved centrally, Bale remained wide, and Lucas slotted in to harry Monreal with fresh lungs and sharp boots. It was a gamble — more width, more pace, less presence in the box. But Zidane knew: Madrid needed chaos, Madrid needed energy.
Arsenal's defenders exchanged glances, silently recalibrating. Monreal wiped sweat from his brow, muttering to himself. Bellerín jogged across to whisper instructions. Van Dijk clapped his hands, rallying the line.
And Francesco? He jogged back into his wing position, rolling his shoulders, shouting over the din to Giroud: "We hold them. Then we strike."
Giroud thumped his chest in reply.
The clock ticked toward the 78th minute, and as if summoned by some unseen signal, Cristiano Ronaldo demanded the stage.
For the next eight minutes, it was his theatre.
The San Siro, already shaking from every step of the battle, now felt like it revolved around him alone. Cristiano drifted left, right, central — a ghost no one could pin down. And every time the ball found him, danger followed.
Héctor Bellerín, usually quick as a whip, looked like a boy among men. Cristiano bullied him, shoulder barges, sudden stepovers, little bursts of acceleration that left the Spaniard gasping. Twice, Cristiano nudged him off balance, exploding past him into space before Arsenal's back line could scramble.
The Arsenal end bit their nails, groaned, and shouted prayers into the smoke.
In the 79th minute, it was almost disaster. Isco, slippery and clever, fed Cristiano on the edge of the box. The Portuguese star lowered his shoulder, sent Bellerín tumbling with a feint, and surged inside. Kanté came tearing across like a man possessed, legs pumping, eyes blazing, but Cristiano was quicker. He shifted the ball onto his right and let fly.
The strike was venomous — low, fast, fizzing toward the far corner.
But Čech, that immovable tower, was ready. He dropped low, arms out, gloves firm, and smothered the shot. The ball bounced against his chest and into his grip. Relief thundered through Arsenal hearts like a second heartbeat.
Cristiano snarled, turning to glare at the heavens.
Two minutes later, he was at it again. Bale swung in a curling ball from the right, and Cristiano outjumped Bellerín as if gravity bent differently for him. His header, powerful and downward, ricocheted toward the near post.
But Van Dijk was there, anticipation perfect. He threw himself across, shin meeting ball with a bone-shaking thud. The clearance spun away, danger averted, but only just.
The Madrid end groaned in frustration, yet their voices never waned. Every time Cristiano touched the ball, belief surged back into them.
In the 82nd minute, Ronaldo tore at Arsenal once more. Marcelo slid a clever pass down the line, Cristiano sprinting onto it. He cut inside, flicked past Bellerín with humiliating ease, and surged straight into the teeth of Arsenal's defence.
Kanté lunged. Cristiano skipped. Koscielny stepped. Cristiano danced.
And then — a shot, vicious, curling toward the roof of the net.
But again, salvation came. Čech, towering, his reflexes honed by decades of war, flung an arm skyward and tipped it away. The ball sailed into the night air and back into play, where Van Dijk hooked it long and clear.
Cristiano thumped the ground with his fist, rage written across his face. The net had eluded him, the night mocked him, and time was bleeding away.
Eight minutes. Eight minutes of relentless fire. And yet Arsenal stood.
And then came the 87th minute.
It began innocently, almost forgettably. Wilshere nipped in, sliding a ball off Isco's toes in midfield. He pivoted, looked up, and spotted Francesco hovering on the halfway line, Ramos and Pepe both lingering higher than they should have.
Wilshere's pass was quick, sharp, rolling perfectly into Francesco's stride.
And what followed was not football. It was art.
Francesco touched the ball forward, his stride lengthening. Modrić was the first to close him down, quick feet trying to shepherd him wide. Francesco dipped his shoulder, nudged the ball left, and glided past him as if he wasn't there.
Marcelo came next, charging across, teeth bared. Francesco feinted one way, then cut the other, the Brazilian left grasping at thin air.
Casemiro thundered in, the enforcer ready to clatter through bone if needed. But Francesco shifted gears, tapping the ball past with the outside of his boot and accelerating just enough to slip beyond the Brazilian's reach. Casemiro lunged, caught nothing, and fell sprawling into the grass.
Now Ramos loomed, predator eyes, timing perfect. He lunged with that famous slide tackle, studs inches from ball. Francesco flicked it forward at the last possible instant, leaping over Ramos' outstretched leg, landing light, balanced, unbroken.
One man left. Pepe.
The Portuguese defender braced himself, fury written into every muscle. He lunged forward, arms flaring, legs swinging. But Francesco's momentum was unstoppable. He shifted the ball right, powered forward, shoulder dropping, and Pepe's desperate swipe caught nothing but the echo of his shadow.
Francesco was through.
The pitch opened before him, green and endless, the goal looming like a beacon. Navas stepped forward, arms wide, teeth clenched. The crowd roared, eighty thousand voices melting into a single scream.
And Francesco? He slowed for a heartbeat. Just enough. Just long enough.
Then he struck.
Right foot. Clean. Precise. The ball zipped low, past Navas' dive, grazing the inside of the post before nestling in the back of the net.
The San Siro erupted.
Time broke.
The Arsenal end became chaos, men and women weeping, shouting, tumbling over seats, strangers clutching strangers. The Madrid end fell silent, jaws open, disbelief etched into every pale face.
On the pitch, Francesco slid to his knees, arms stretched wide, eyes blazing toward the heavens. His teammates surged toward him, Sánchez and Özil and Giroud piling on, Wilshere grabbing his head, screaming into his ear.
A hat-trick.
In a Champions League final. Against Real Madrid.
It was myth made flesh.
The scoreboard burned into history:
Real Madrid 1 – 3 Arsenal (87') Francesco Lee (3)
Leah was in tears in the stands, her hands clasped to her mouth, her heart tearing open with pride. Mike roared so loud his voice cracked, while Sarah whispered through sobs: "He's not just ours anymore. He belongs to history."
Commentators worldwide lost their voices. Ian Wright on ITV screamed into his mic. Thierry Henry, watching from the Sky panel, slammed his palm against the desk, his face split between shock and joy.
Francesco had done what legends rarely dare: he had scored a hat-trick in the most unforgiving match of them all.
The final minutes were madness. Madrid hurled themselves forward, Ramos charging like a forward, Bale cutting inside again and again, Isco jinking through spaces no one else could see. But Arsenal were steel now, unbreakable, every man a wall, every second a prayer closer to eternity.
Čech punched clear. Van Dijk cleared high. Koscielny headed away. Kanté slid and scrapped, blood and sweat and willpower.
Francesco, drained but burning, chased every lost cause, clattered into Pepe one more time, dragged the clock into his chest and refused to let go.
And then — the whistle.
The shriek that ended it all.
Arsenal had beaten Real Madrid. Arsenal were champions of Europe.
Final score: Real Madrid 1 – 3 Arsenal.
The pitch exploded in red. Players collapsed to their knees, faces buried in their hands, overcome by the enormity. Wenger lifted his arms skyward, eyes wet, his smile the smile of a man who had carried a lifetime's weight and finally laid it down.
Francesco, tears streaming down his cheeks, dropped to the grass, arms spread wide, staring up at the heavens as if to ask if it was real. His teammates dragged him up, hoisted him on their shoulders, his name echoing across Milan, across Europe, across history.
He had not just won the Champions League, but he had conquered it. A hat-trick in the final, and a night that would never be forgotten. And Arsenal — at last — were kings of Europe.
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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: 82
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