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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
The segment wrapped up with one final shot of the Emirates under the lights, red and gold banners draped across the stands.
The screen lingered on the image of the Emirates for a few seconds longer.
Red and gold banners hanging from the stands.
Floodlights casting long shadows across empty seats that, only the night before, had been filled with noise, with life, with the kind of emotion that never really leaves a place like that even when the people go home.
Then the broadcast faded into a short break.
In the living room, no one spoke for a moment.
It wasn't silence in the awkward sense.
It was the kind of silence that follows something meaningful, when everyone is letting it sink in, letting the feeling settle where it belongs.
Leah shifted slightly closer into Francesco's side, her head resting comfortably against his shoulder.
He rested his chin lightly against the top of her head, eyes still on the television, but his mind somewhere else.
Not in the past.
Not in the celebrations.
But in what was coming.
Two finals.
Two more steps.
He could almost feel it already.
That familiar tightening in his chest that wasn't anxiety, not fear but anticipation.
The need to finish what they had started.
The room slowly came back to life again.
Amanda stood, gathering empty mugs.
"Anyone want more coffee?" she asked.
David raised his hand slightly.
"I won't say no."
Mike chuckled.
"I think we'll all need it."
Francesco smiled faintly at that.
Recovery day.
But in his mind, recovery had already shifted into preparation.
The break on television ended, the Sky Sports theme music rising again softly as the program resumed.
But Francesco's attention drifted away from the screen now.
Because the next chapter was already waiting.
Days passed.
Quietly at first.
Recovery sessions at London Colney.
Light training.
Video analysis.
Short meetings.
Conversations between teammates that didn't need to be loud to be important.
The city itself seemed to hum with a different kind of energy in those days.
Two invincible seasons.
A league title already secured.
And now, the FA Cup final.
The date circled on every calendar.
27 May 2017.
Morning came early that day.
Not because of nerves.
Because of purpose.
Francesco woke before his alarm again.
The same natural rhythm his body had found all season when something important waited on the other side of the day.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting the quiet settle.
Leah stirred behind him.
"You're up already?" she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.
"Yeah," he said softly.
She pushed herself up slightly, looking at him with a faint smile.
"Big day."
He nodded.
"Big day."
She reached forward, taking his hand.
"You're ready."
He squeezed her hand once.
"We all are."
By the time the Arsenal team bus pulled away from London Colney later that afternoon, the air around them had changed.
Not tense.
Not frantic.
Focused.
Inside the bus, there was conversation but not loud.
Music, but not blaring.
Players in their seats, headphones on, some looking out of the windows, others quietly talking in pairs or small groups.
Francesco sat near the middle, one arm resting on the back of the seat, eyes forward.
Per Mertesacker sat a few seats ahead, captain's armband already tucked neatly in his bag, posture calm as ever.
Across the aisle, N'Golo Kanté leaned forward slightly, listening to something on his phone, occasionally nodding to himself.
Alexis Sánchez bounced his foot lightly, energy simmering beneath the surface.
Theo Walcott stretched his legs out in front of him, exhaling slowly.
The bus turned out onto the main road.
And London came into view.
But this wasn't a normal day in London.
As they drew closer to Wembley, the streets began to fill.
Red.
Blue.
Scarves held high.
Flags waving from car windows.
Groups of supporters walking together, singing, chanting, laughing.
The closer they got, the thicker it became.
Arsenal fans lining one side of the street.
Chelsea fans on the other.
A river of anticipation flowing toward one destination.
Inside the bus, players began to look out.
Some tapping the windows lightly in acknowledgment.
Some raising a hand.
Francesco watched them.
All of them.
Every face.
Every voice.
This was what it was for.
The bus slowed as it approached Wembley Way.
The iconic arch rose into view above them, cutting across the sky like a promise.
The sound outside grew louder.
Chants rising.
Drums beating.
Voices calling out the names of players as the bus passed.
"FRANCESCO!"
"ARSENAL!"
The bus turned into the stadium entrance.
Security guided them through.
And then, they were there.
Wembley.
The bus rolled to a stop.
The doors opened.
And the noise rushed in like a wave.
Players stood.
One by one, they stepped off.
Francesco followed behind Per, the captain stepping down first, greeted by the wall of sound that only a cup final could create.
Sunlight hit them immediately.
Bright.
Clear.
The pitch not visible yet, but the stadium alive around them.
Chelsea's bus had already arrived.
Their players were moving inside on the opposite side.
A quick glance.
No words.
Just acknowledgment.
Competitors.
Francesco adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder and walked forward with his teammates into the stadium.
Through the corridors.
Past security.
Past staff.
Past the FA Cup banners that lined the walls.
History everywhere.
Every step carrying weight.
They reached the dressing room.
The door opened.
Inside, everything was prepared.
Shirts laid out.
Players' names printed across the backs.
Boots placed neatly.
The calm before the storm.
They moved in, each player heading to their place, beginning the familiar routine.
Changing out of travel gear.
Pulling on training kits.
Taping wrists.
Adjusting socks.
Little rituals.
Little habits.
Things they had done hundreds of times before, but never without meaning.
Francesco sat down at his spot, pulling on his training top, tying his laces carefully.
Per walked through the room, checking on a few players, offering quiet words, a nod here, a pat on the shoulder there.
Leadership in its simplest form.
After a few minutes, the staff signaled.
Time.
They stood.
And walked out toward the pitch.
The tunnel opened.
And Wembley revealed itself.
The grass perfect.
The stands already filling.
The FA Cup logo set at the center.
They stepped out for warm-up.
The sound of the crowd rose again as they appeared.
Arsenal supporters cheering loudly from one end.
Chelsea fans responding from the other.
The pitch felt alive under their boots.
They spread out into their drills.
Passing patterns.
Short sprints.
Shots on goal.
Francesco struck a few balls cleanly, feeling the connection, feeling the rhythm, feeling his body respond exactly as it should.
Sharp.
Ready.
Every touch precise.
Every movement controlled.
He exchanged a few quick passes with Özil, the two of them moving almost without needing to look.
Understanding built over seasons.
Trust.
After a while, the warm-up began to wind down.
Players gathered near the center.
A final stretch.
A final few touches.
Then they turned.
And headed back down the tunnel.
Back into the dressing room.
The real moment was coming now.
They changed again.
Training tops off.
Match kits on.
Red and white shirts.
White shorts.
Socks pulled up.
Boots tightened.
Francesco pulled on his shirt, smoothing it down over his chest.
Wenger stepped into the center of the room.
The conversations faded.
The room focused.
His voice was calm.
Measured.
But clear.
"We play our football," he said. "We stay disciplined. We stay patient."
He looked around at each of them.
"Today, we use our 4-3-3."
He began to list it.
"David Ospina in goal."
Ospina nodded once.
"Back four are Andrew Robertson, Per Mertesacker as captain, Rob Holding, Kyle Walker."
Each defender acknowledged it quietly.
"In midfield, N'Golo Kanté holding. Mesut Özil and Granit Xhaka in front of him."
Kanté, Özil, Xhaka as each was focused and ready.
"Front three, Alexis Sánchez on the left. Theo Walcott on the right."
Alexis exhaled slowly.
Walcott nodded.
"And Francesco Lee as striker."
Francesco met Wenger's eyes for a brief moment.
A simple nod passed between them.
Trust.
Wenger continued.
"On the bench are Cech, Van Dijk, Bellerin, Ramsey, Cazorla, Walcott, Giroud."
He paused.
Then he spoke the most important part.
"Play with courage. Play with intelligence. Play together."
Silence followed.
Not empty.
Charged.
Per stood.
The captain.
He didn't give a long speech.
He didn't need to.
"Let's finish it," he said simply.
A murmur of agreement moved through the room.
Francesco stood as well, clapping once.
"Together," he said.
"Together," the room echoed.
They formed a small huddle.
Hands in.
Heads close.
One final breath.
Then they broke.
And moved.
Out of the dressing room.
Down the tunnel.
The sound grew louder with each step.
The closer they got to the pitch.
The more the noise built.
They reached the line-up area.
Referees in front.
Chelsea players already there.
Blue shirts.
Focused faces.
Francesco took his place behind Per.
And just beside them.
Gary Cahill, Chelsea's captain, standing at the front of his own line.
A glance.
Respect.
Competition.
No words needed.
The referee looked back, gave the signal.
"Let's go."
The lines began to move.
They stepped forward.
Out of the tunnel.
And the sun met them.
Bright.
Open.
The roar of Wembley Stadium crashing down around them as both teams walked out onto the pitch.
Flags waving.
Voices rising.
A final on English soil.
They walked to the center, lining up beside the referees.
Cameras flashing.
The anthem played.
Then the formalities.
Handshakes.
One by one.
Arsenal players greeting the referees.
Then turning.
Shaking hands with Chelsea players.
Short nods.
Eyes locked.
Professional.
Focused.
Then they lined up for the team photo.
Arsenal's starting eleven crouched and stood in position.
The camera clicked.
History captured in a frame that hadn't even begun to move yet.
After that, both captains stepped forward.
Per Mertesacker.
Gary Cahill.
They met the referee at the center of the pitch.
The coin came out.
A small object.
But in moments like this, it carried weight.
The referee flipped it.
It spun in the air.
Fell.
He covered it with his hand.
Looked up.
"Call?"
Cahill chose.
"Right."
The referee revealed the result.
Chelsea would kick off.
The captains shook hands.
Turned.
And walked back to their teams.
Francesco took his place at the center circle.
Boots pressing lightly into the Wembley grass.
Heart steady.
Eyes forward.
The whistle was coming.
Then the whistle came.
Sharp.
Clear.
It cut through everything as the noise, the chants, the beating of drums, the anticipation that had been building all day and in that instant, everything became simple.
Football.
Chelsea tapped the ball back from the center spot, the first touch of the final taken under the bright Wembley sun.
They settled into their shape immediately.
A 3-4-2-1 that looked fluid even in its first movements.
Up front stood Diego Costa, shoulders squared, already pressing, already looking for space to bully his way into.
Out wide, Marcos Alonso and Victor Moses pushed high and aggressive, trying to pin Arsenal's back line early, stretching the pitch and forcing Robertson and Walker to make decisions.
Behind Costa, the two attacking midfielders are Eden Hazard and Pedro that floated between the lines, constantly shifting, constantly looking for pockets of space.
In the middle, Cesc Fabregas and Nemanja Matic anchored Chelsea's control, ready to dictate tempo.
And at the back was Gary Cahill, Cesar Azpilicueta, and David Luiz, a three-man wall protecting Thibaut Courtois in goal.
Arsenal responded in kind.
Shape compact.
Lines tight.
N'Golo Kante sat just in front of the defense, reading everything, scanning constantly.
Mesut Ozil and Granit Xhaka worked in tandem ahead of him, moving the ball quickly, trying to take the sting out of Chelsea's early press.
And up top, the front three were already alive.
Alexis Sanchez darting inside from the left.
Theo Walcott hugging the right touchline.
And Francesco, watching everything.
Reading the defensive line.
Waiting for the moment to break.
The opening minutes were intense.
Chelsea came forward quickly, aggressively.
Costa's first touch inside the Arsenal box came barely two minutes in, his body muscling past Holding before Mertesacker stepped across to clear with authority.
Wembley roared.
Chelsea fans sensing momentum.
Arsenal didn't panic.
They shifted.
Moved the ball.
Kanté dropped deeper to collect.
Özil drifted wide to create angles.
Xhaka stepped forward to support.
The ball moved quicker now.
From defense into midfield.
From midfield into attack.
Francesco dropped once to link play, receiving the ball from Özil, laying it off to Walcott in one touch before spinning back toward the penalty area.
Already probing.
Already searching.
The match settled into a rhythm.
Chelsea pressing.
Arsenal absorbing.
Then at the 8th minute, the moment came from nothing.
Or at least, it looked like nothing at first.
Kanté won the ball deep in midfield, a perfectly timed interception as Fabregas tried to thread a pass toward Hazard.
One touch.
Simple.
Clean.
He pushed it forward to Özil.
Özil didn't rush.
He lifted his head.
One glance.
That was all he needed.
Sánchez was already making the run.
Timing it perfectly between Azpilicueta and Cahill.
Özil slipped the pass through.
Weighted.
Precise.
Sánchez took it in stride, one touch to control, one more to set his body.
Then he struck.
Low.
Across goal.
Past Courtois' outstretched arm.
Into the far corner.
For a split second.
Silence.
Then, explosion.
The Arsenal end erupted.
Red and white scarves thrown into the air.
Voices rising as one.
Francesco sprinted toward Sánchez immediately, arms wide, a grin breaking across his face.
"Vamos!" Sánchez shouted as they collided into the embrace.
Teammates rushed in.
Walcott.
Özil.
Kanté.
A circle of celebration forming around them.
1–0 Arsenal.
Eight minutes into the FA Cup final.
Then Chelsea responded immediately.
They didn't retreat.
They didn't hesitate.
They attacked.
Costa became even more physical, pressing the back line, fighting for every long ball.
Hazard began drifting wider, trying to isolate Walker one-on-one.
Pedro cut inside more frequently, linking play quickly with Fabregas.
The pressure built.
Wave after wave.
Ospina was forced into his first real save in the 13th minute, diving low to his right to stop a sharp effort from Pedro after a quick exchange at the edge of the box.
The rebound fell to Costa.
Blocked.
Holding throwing himself in front of it.
Arsenal cleared.
But the warning was there.
Chelsea were not going away.
At the 17th minute, Chelsea manage to found their equalizer.
It started on the right.
Moses driving forward, powerful, direct, pushing Robertson back toward the penalty area.
He slipped the ball inside to Pedro, who took one touch to settle, one to draw Xhaka toward him.
Then threaded the pass through.
Perfectly weighted.
Into the path of Costa.
Costa didn't need a second invitation.
One touch to control.
Second to strike.
Powerful.
Low.
Past Ospina.
Into the net.
The Chelsea end exploded this time.
Blue flags waving.
Arms raised.
Costa roaring, fists clenched, chest heaving.
1–1.
Seventeen minutes played.
Game on.
Francesco stood at the edge of the center circle as Chelsea celebrated, breathing steady, eyes fixed forward.
Reset.
Focus.
Again.
Then after that, the next stretch of the match became a battle.
Not just tactical.
Physical.
Emotional.
Midfield turned into a war zone.
Kanté covering ground relentlessly, snapping into tackles, recovering loose balls.
Fabregas trying to dictate play, constantly looking for space to receive.
Matic stepping in strong, breaking up Arsenal's passing rhythm.
Özil weaving through tight areas, slipping passes where no one else could see them.
Xhaka launching challenges, trying to assert control.
Every duel mattered.
Every second ball contested.
On the wings, Sánchez and Walcott kept pushing.
Testing Chelsea's back three.
Forcing them to shift wide.
Creating gaps.
And Francesco.
He watched.
He waited.
He moved.
Dragging defenders.
Dropping into pockets.
Then darting forward again.
Always searching for that moment.
Then the moment came at the 30th minute.
And this time.
It was his.
It began again with Kanté.
Of course it did.
He won the ball just inside Arsenal's half, stealing it cleanly from Hazard as the Belgian tried to turn.
One touch.
Forward.
Direct.
He carried it a few steps, then slid the pass into Francesco's feet at the edge of the final third.
Francesco's first touch was soft.
Controlled.
He turned quickly, facing the Chelsea back line.
Cahill stepped up.
Luiz held position.
Azpilicueta shifted across.
Sánchez was on the left.
Walcott on the right.
But the space.
The space was there.
A narrow channel between Cahill and Luiz.
Francesco saw it.
In a heartbeat.
He pushed the ball forward with his left foot.
Explosive acceleration.
Cahill turned to chase.
Luiz stepped across.
Too late.
Francesco took one more touch to set his body, then struck with his right.
Clean.
Powerful.
Across goal.
Past Courtois.
Into the bottom corner.
Net.
Rippling.
Wembley erupted again.
The Arsenal end louder than ever.
Francesco slowed his run just long enough to take it in.
The sound.
The moment.
Then he spread his arms and turned toward the crowd, a fierce smile across his face.
Sánchez reached him first, jumping onto his back.
"Vamos, hermano!" he shouted.
Walcott arrived next.
Özil.
Kanté.
Xhaka.
All around him again.
2–1 Arsenal.
Thirty minutes in.
Lead restored.
The match didn't calm after that.
If anything, it grew even more intense.
Chelsea pushed harder.
Arsenal responded with equal determination.
Challenges became heavier.
Faster.
Sharper.
In the 35th minute, Holding went into a strong tackle on Costa near the touchline.
Clean.
But forceful.
The referee blew the whistle and walked over, issuing a yellow card as a warning to keep things under control.
Holding nodded.
Accepted it.
Focused.
Minutes later, Moses clattered into Robertson during a chase for a loose ball.
Late.
The whistle came again.
Another yellow card.
Balance restored.
But the tension remained.
You could feel it in every pass.
Every tackle.
Every sprint.
This was a final.
And neither side was willing to give an inch.
The final ten minutes of the half became a stalemate of determination.
Chelsea probing.
Switching play from side to side.
Looking for openings.
Arsenal holding their shape.
Compact.
Disciplined.
Waiting for chances to break.
Francesco nearly got in again in the 41st minute, latching onto a long ball from Xhaka, bringing it down under pressure from Luiz before unleashing a shot that Courtois pushed wide with a strong hand.
The corner came.
Sánchez swung it in.
Mertesacker rose highest, juts over as the whistle blew for halftime shortly after.
A long, sharp note that cut through the noise once more.
The players slowed.
Breathing heavy.
Sweat on their faces.
But the scoreline remained.
Arsenal 2 – 1 Chelsea.
Francesco walked back toward the tunnel with his teammates, side by side.
No celebration.
No relaxation.
Just focus.
Half the job done.
Half still to go.
Inside the tunnel, the noise of the crowd softened into a distant roar behind them.
They reached the dressing room.
The door closed.
And the outside world disappeared.
Shirts clung to skin.
Boots heavy with the first half's effort.
Players dropped into their seats, grabbing water, wiping sweat from their faces.
Some leaned forward.
Some leaned back.
All breathing.
All listening.
Wenger stepped forward again.
Calm.
Measured.
Eyes scanning each of them.
"You have done well," he began. "Very well."
A pause.
"But it is not finished."
The room remained silent.
Focused.
"They will come harder in the second half," he continued. "They will push higher. They will take risks."
He looked directly at the midfield.
"We must control the ball better. Make them run. Make them chase."
Then to the defense.
"Stay compact. Do not get drawn out. Communicate."
Then to the front three.
"Be ready. The spaces will come when they commit forward."
His eyes landed briefly on Francesco.
A quiet understanding passed between them again.
Finish it.
Wenger stepped back.
Per stood once more.
Captain.
Leader.
"We stay together," he said simply. "Forty-five more minutes."
Francesco rose with the rest of them.
Heart steady.
Mind clear.
The second half was waiting.
Then they went to the tunnel as the second half was about to start, and feel that the air felt thicker than it had before kickoff.
Warmer.
Heavier.
Not because of the temperature, but because of what waited on the other side of that narrow passage.
Forty-five minutes from silverware.
Forty-five minutes from writing another line into history.
Francesco stood among his teammates as they lined up, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, his lungs drawing in slow, controlled breaths. Around him, boots tapped softly against the floor, shirts rustled, the quiet murmur of final words exchanged in low tones.
A hand brushed his shoulder.
Mesut Özil.
"Stay sharp," the German said softly, his voice calm but focused. "The spaces will open."
Francesco gave a small nod.
"I'll be there."
Ahead of them, the referee's whistle sounded once with short, signaling movement.
The line began to move.
Out of the tunnel.
Back into the light.
Back into Wembley.
The roar hit them like a wave.
It always did.
But this time, it felt different.
More urgent.
More electric.
More alive.
The second half of the FA Cup final was about to begin.
Chelsea restarted with intent.
There was no hesitation in their movements.
No cautious probing.
No slow settling into rhythm.
They came out like a storm breaking.
It was instantly clear what Antonio Conte had demanded from his players during halftime.
Speed.
Directness.
Violence in transition.
The 3-4-2-1 shape stretched wider now, more aggressive, with Marcos Alonso and Victor Moses pushing even higher than before, practically pinning Arsenal's fullbacks deep into their own half.
But the biggest difference was the moment Chelsea regained possession.
They didn't build slowly anymore.
They exploded forward.
Rapid counter-attacks.
Two, three touches at most before the ball surged toward Arsenal's half like a released arrow.
Francesco saw it immediately.
Felt it in the pace of the game.
The way the midfield suddenly opened.
The way space appeared and disappeared in seconds.
The way Kanté now had to cover even more ground than before.
"Careful!" Xhaka shouted as a Chelsea move broke forward just two minutes into the half.
Fabregas picked the ball deep, turned, and launched a diagonal ball toward Moses, who had already begun his run down the right flank.
Robertson sprinted to track him.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Stride for stride.
Moses nudged the ball forward, cut inside slightly, and whipped a low cross toward Costa.
Mertesacker stepped in.
Perfectly timed.
Cleared.
But the warning had been sent.
Chelsea were coming.
And they were coming fast.
Arsenal tried to respond by keeping possession.
By slowing the tempo.
Özil drifted deeper now, almost alongside Kanté at times, trying to create numerical superiority in midfield, trying to take the sting out of Chelsea's counters.
For a few minutes, it worked.
Short passes.
Controlled rhythm.
Francesco dropped slightly deeper as well, linking play, drawing one of Chelsea's center-backs out of position before releasing the ball wide to Sánchez or Walcott's that holding the flank.
But Chelsea weren't interested in prolonged battles for possession anymore.
They waited.
Disciplined.
Compact.
And the moment Arsenal made even the smallest mistake.
They struck.
The 52nd minute nearly saw them level the score.
Xhaka attempted a forward pass toward Walcott on the right.
Azpilicueta read it.
Intercepted.
One touch to control.
Second touch forward.
Fabregas received.
Spun.
Threaded the ball instantly into the path of Hazard, who had drifted into that dangerous half-space between Arsenal's midfield and defense.
Hazard carried it.
Gliding.
Light on his feet.
He slipped past Kanté's attempted challenge with a subtle drop of the shoulder.
Now he was running at the back line.
Holding stepped forward.
Mertesacker held position.
Costa made a diagonal run to drag the captain away.
Hazard opened his body.
Shot.
Low.
Toward the far corner.
Ospina reacted.
Diving full stretch.
Fingertips brushing the ball.
Pushing it just wide of the post.
The Chelsea fans rose, hands on heads, voices roaring in frustration.
So close.
But not yet.
Not yet, but two minutes later.
They found it, at the 54th minute.
The equalizer.
It started, again, from the right.
Victor Moses.
Relentless all game.
Tireless.
Dangerous.
He received the ball near the halfway line from Matic's earlier movement that feeding the line.
Moses pushed forward with power, his strides long, his touch precise.
Robertson backed off, trying to delay him.
Sánchez tracked back, but he was half a step late.
Moses cut inside slightly, just enough to open the passing lane.
And then he saw him.
Hazard.
Ghosting between the lines again.
Unmarked for just a second.
That was all he needed.
Moses slid the pass in.
Perfect weight.
Perfect angle.
Hazard took one touch to control.
Second to shift the ball out of his feet.
Holding stepped across to block.
Mertesacker tried to close the gap.
Too late.
Hazard struck.
Right foot.
Clean.
Low.
Driven.
Past Ospina.
Into the bottom corner.
For a split second, Wembley held its breath.
Then the blue end exploded.
Flags.
Shouts.
Bodies leaping into the air.
Eden Hazard sprinted toward the corner, arms outstretched, a wide grin breaking across his face as his teammates chased after him.
2–2.
Fifty-four minutes.
The final was level again.
Francesco stood at the center circle once more.
Hands on hips.
Chest rising and falling steadily.
He watched Hazard's celebration.
Watched the Chelsea players gather.
Watched the blue end of Wembley come alive again.
Then he lowered his head slightly.
Exhaled.
Reset.
"Again," he murmured under his breath.
Next to him, Sánchez clapped his hands once, sharp.
"Come on! Heads up!"
Kanté jogged back into position, already pointing, already organizing.
Mertesacker's voice rang out from the back.
"Stay together! Stay compact!"
Wenger stood at the edge of his technical area, arms folded, his face composed but his eyes sharp, calculating.
The match had shifted again.
Balance restored.
Everything to play for.
The next five minutes were chaos.
Beautiful, exhausting, relentless chaos.
Chelsea smelled blood.
Their counters became even faster, even more direct.
Willian and Loftus-Cheek were already being prepared on the touchline, warming up, Conte clearly planning his next move.
Arsenal, meanwhile, tried to regain control.
Özil slowed play when he could.
Xhaka attempted to spread the ball wide.
Sánchez kept driving forward whenever he found space.
Francesco moved constantly, dragging defenders, creating lanes, offering options.
But the rhythm of the game was no longer calm.
It was frantic.
End to end.
Tackles flying in.
Second balls bouncing loose.
Every touch under pressure.
Every pass contested.
In the 57th minute, Francesco nearly broke through again, receiving a quick pass from Özil at the edge of the box, spinning away from Cahill before unleashing a shot that deflected off Luiz and went wide.
He clenched his fists briefly.
So close.
He could feel it.
Another goal was coming.
He just didn't know which side it would fall for.
Then Wenger acted first, at the 59th minute with two changes.
Clear.
Decisive.
Necessary.
The fourth official's board lit up on the touchline.
Number 14 off.
Number 27 off.
Number 17 on.
Number 4 on.
Theo Walcott and Rob Holding jogged toward the sideline, sweat-soaked, breathing heavy after their efforts.
Walcott gave Francesco a quick slap on the shoulder as he passed.
"Finish it, mate," he said with a tired grin.
Holding nodded toward Mertesacker as he came off, the captain returning the gesture with a firm clap on the back.
On came fresh legs.
Fresh energy.
Serge Gnabry sprinted onto the right flank, his pace immediately stretching Chelsea's defensive line.
And behind, stepping into the heart of the defense, tall, composed, commanding.
Virgil van Dijk.
A statement change.
Wenger was reinforcing the back line.
Preparing for the battles to come.
Francesco looked back briefly at Van Dijk as the Dutchman took his position, his presence immediately felt.
Stronger.
More dominant in the air.
More aggressive stepping forward.
"Good," Francesco muttered to himself.
They would need that.
Chelsea responded soon after, as at the 63rd minute.
Conte made his move.
The fourth official's board rose again.
Two more changes.
Pedro off.
Matic off.
On came fresh attacking threat.
Fresh power.
Willian entered the pitch, his quick feet and creativity adding another layer of danger between the lines.
And alongside him, strong, direct, full of running.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek.
Chelsea weren't settling for a draw.
They were going for it.
Just like Arsenal.
Just like everyone in Wembley could feel now.
This final wasn't going to be decided quietly.
It was going to be taken.
The match resumed with a ferocity that made the air inside Wembley feel charged, almost electric, as if every breath carried sparks.
It wasn't just football anymore.
It was will against will.
Both sides pushed forward with the urgency of men who understood exactly what was at stake which is silverware, legacy, a place in history that would be spoken about for years. Every tackle was sharper. Every run was more desperate. Every touch carried weight.
Chelsea surged forward in waves, Willian already making his presence felt just minutes after coming on, drifting into pockets between Arsenal's midfield and defensive line, his first touches clean and purposeful. Loftus-Cheek added muscle and forward thrust, carrying the ball through challenges and drawing fouls that gave Chelsea territory and momentum.
But Arsenal responded in kind.
Kanté was everywhere, intercepting, recovering, tackling as his lungs somehow refusing to burn even after the hour mark. Xhaka sat deeper now, dictating where he could, spreading play when the opportunity presented itself. Özil floated, elusive as ever, appearing in half-spaces just long enough to influence the move before disappearing again.
And Francesco…
Francesco was in constant motion.
He drifted centrally, then wide, then deep again, pulling defenders with him, forcing them to make decisions they didn't want to make. Cahill followed him once, then hesitated the next time. Luiz tried to anticipate him, stepping out early to intercept a pass, but Francesco had already spun away, creating the space for Gnabry to dart into.
The tension built with every passing minute.
Every attack felt like it might be the one.
Every mistake felt like it might be fatal.
Then came the 68th minute.
The moment everything tipped again.
It began, quietly enough, with Kanté regaining possession near the center circle, his tackle on Loftus-Cheek clean and perfectly timed. The ball spilled forward, rolling into open grass.
Kanté didn't hesitate.
One touch forward.
Then a quick, simple pass into Xhaka's feet.
Xhaka looked up immediately, scanning the field, his mind working faster than his feet needed to move. He saw the shape of Chelsea's defense and saw the line slightly disorganized from their forward push, saw the gap opening between Azpilicueta and Luiz for just a second.
That was all he needed.
With a smooth swing of his left foot, Xhaka sent a precise, slicing pass through the channel.
It cut between defenders like a blade.
And Gnabry was already moving.
The young German exploded into the space, his acceleration electric, leaving Azpilicueta half a step behind. He reached the ball just inside the right edge of the penalty area, his first touch cushioning it perfectly into his stride.
Cahill rushed across to close him down.
Luiz tracked centrally, ready to cover.
Courtois adjusted his position, lowering his center of gravity, preparing for the shot.
But Gnabry didn't rush.
He took one more touch inward.
Set himself.
Then struck.
Right foot.
Low and driven.
Across the face of goal.
The ball skidded off the turf, evading Courtois's outstretched glove by inches before nestling into the far corner.
For a split second, there was silence.
Then Wembley erupted.
Red and white exploded in noise, in movement, in pure, unfiltered joy.
Gnabry sprinted toward the corner flag, his face lit with disbelief and exhilaration, arms spread wide as his teammates chased him down.
Francesco was the first to reach him, wrapping him in a tight embrace, shouting something into his ear that was lost in the roar of the crowd.
"YES! THAT'S IT! THAT'S IT!"
3–2.
Arsenal had taken the lead again.
For the second time in this final, they were in front.
Francesco pulled back slightly, gripping Gnabry's shoulders, looking him in the eyes.
"Brilliant," he said, breathless, a wide grin across his face. "Absolutely brilliant."
Around them, their teammates gathered with Özil smiling quietly, Kanté clapping once with satisfaction, Xhaka pointing toward Gnabry in acknowledgment of the finish that had made his pass count.
Back on the touchline, Wenger allowed himself a small nod.
Just a small one.
But it said everything.
They were ahead.
Now came the hardest part.
Holding it.
Chelsea's response was immediate.
There was no pause. No hesitation.
Conte barked instructions from the sideline, his voice cutting through the noise as his players surged forward again, driven by urgency and the knowledge that time was slipping away.
Willian dropped deeper to get on the ball more often, linking play with Hazard, who remained the focal point of Chelsea's attacking threat. Moses and Alonso pushed even higher now, practically operating as wingers.
The pressure mounted.
Cross after cross swung into Arsenal's box.
Van Dijk rose to meet one, heading it clear with authority.
Mertesacker intercepted another, positioning himself perfectly to cut out a dangerous low delivery toward the near post.
Kanté blocked a shot from the edge of the area.
Xhaka threw himself into a challenge that halted Loftus-Cheek's drive forward.
It became a siege.
Wave after wave of blue shirts crashing forward, testing Arsenal's resolve.
And Arsenal began to shift.
The rhythm of their play changed.
They dropped deeper.
More compact.
More disciplined.
They weren't chasing another goal now as they were protecting what they had.
Francesco felt the shift too.
His role changed subtly.
He still pressed when he could, still made runs when space opened but more often now he was tracking back, helping close passing lanes, offering an outlet when Arsenal managed to clear their lines.
Every clearance was cheered like a goal by the Arsenal supporters.
Every block, every interception, every tackle ad it all mattered.
The minutes ticked on.
70.
71.
72.
Each one heavier than the last.
Chelsea came close again in the 73rd minute when Willian whipped in a dangerous free-kick from the left side. The ball curled toward the far post, where Cahill rose highest, directing a powerful header toward goal.
Ospina reacted instinctively.
He dove to his right, hands strong, parrying the ball away before scrambling to gather it on the second attempt.
He held it tight.
Clutched it to his chest.
Then stayed down for a moment longer than necessary.
The clock was their ally now.
Francesco jogged back into position, glancing toward the scoreboard.
Time was moving.
But not fast enough.
At the 77th minute, Wenger made another change.
The board went up.
Number 7 off.
Number 12 on.
Alexis Sánchez, exhausted after a tireless performance up and down the flank, jogged toward the sideline, sweat pouring from his face. As he passed Francesco, he gave him a quick nod.
"Finish it," he said simply.
Francesco nodded back.
"I will."
On came Olivier Giroud, the big French striker immediately taking up a central position up front.
And with that change, Francesco shifted.
He moved out to the left wing.
A different role now.
Less central involvement, but still crucial from an outlet, a runner, a player who could carry the ball upfield and relieve pressure when Arsenal needed it most.
He adapted quickly.
The game demanded it.
Chelsea kept pushing.
Conte made his final roll of the dice in the 81st minute.
Costa off.
Batshuayi on.
Fresh legs.
Fresh energy.
Another attacking threat thrown forward in desperation.
Chelsea were all in now.
Hazard drifted inside more often, linking with Willian, trying to unlock Arsenal's defense with quick combinations. Batshuayi made sharp runs behind the line, testing Van Dijk and Mertesacker's positioning.
One moment in the 84th minute nearly broke Arsenal hearts.
A quick one-two between Hazard and Willian split the midfield, sending Hazard bursting into the box from the left. He cut inside onto his right foot, shaping to shoot toward the far corner once again.
Francesco, who had tracked all the way back, lunged in from the side at the last possible second.
A perfectly timed block.
The ball deflected wide for a corner.
Hazard threw his arms up in frustration.
Francesco stayed down for a second, catching his breath, before pushing himself back to his feet as his teammates clapped him on the back.
"Good work!" Kanté shouted.
"Keep going!"
The corner came in.
Van Dijk rose again.
Cleared.
Only for the ball to fall to Willian at the edge of the area.
He struck it first time.
Xhaka threw himself in the way.
Deflection.
Over the bar.
Another corner.
Another clearance.
Another minute gone.
The clock edged toward ninety.
The fourth official prepared the board.
Four minutes of added time.
Four minutes that felt like an eternity.
Every second stretched.
Every pass mattered.
Arsenal barely left their half now.
Giroud fought for long balls, trying to hold it up, trying to win fouls, trying to give his teammates a moment to breathe.
Francesco stayed wide on the left, ready to chase any clearance, ready to carry the ball into the corner if he had the chance.
In the 92nd minute, he got that chance.
A long clearance from Van Dijk bounced near the halfway line, and Francesco sprinted after it, outpacing Azpilicueta by just enough to reach it first. He controlled it, shielded it, then drove forward down the left touchline.
The Arsenal fans rose again, sensing the moment.
Francesco pushed the ball toward the corner flag, using his body to protect it as Azpilicueta tried to win it back.
He held it there.
Seconds ticking.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then he won the throw-in.
Another few seconds gone.
He clapped once, urging his teammates to push up, to support.
The throw came in.
Back to him.
He held it again.
Drew the foul.
Another whistle.
Another precious few seconds.
Wembley roared with approval.
And then finally, the whistle was sound.
Long.
Sharp.
Definitive.
Full time.
Arsenal 3.
Chelsea 2.
For a split second, everything seemed to freeze.
Then it exploded.
Arsenal players dropped to their knees.
Some raised their arms to the sky.
Some simply stood still, overwhelmed, breathing hard, trying to process what they had just done.
Francesco stood there at first, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart still racing from the final sprint down the wing.
Then the reality hit him.
They had done it.
They had won.
The FA Cup.
He let out a breath that felt like it had been held for hours.
Then he smiled.
Wide.
Unrestrained.
And he turned, running toward his teammates as they gathered near the center of the pitch, embracing one another in celebration.
Kanté laughed with a rare, open laugh as he hugged Xhaka.
Özil shook his head with a soft smile, pulling Gnabry into another embrace.
Van Dijk and Mertesacker clapped each other on the back, their defensive partnership having held firm under relentless pressure.
Giroud raised his fists to the crowd.
Francesco found himself surrounded, arms wrapping around him, voices shouting, laughter and relief and joy mixing together in a moment that would live with them forever. Above them, red and white confetti had already begun to fall.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, and Premier League Champion 2016/2017.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 54
Goal: 85
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9