117. The Round 16 Of Champions League PT.2

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Francesco sat on the bench, wiping sweat from his forehead. He knew they had played well, but football was cruel—one mistake, one lapse, and the scoreline didn't reflect their dominance.

Francesco sat on the bench, fists clenched, his breathing still heavy from the intense first half. He could hear the murmurs of disappointment around the locker room—the frustration, the doubt creeping in. The players knew they had been the better team, but the scoreboard didn't reflect it.

And that's what angered Francesco the most.

He suddenly stood up, his chair scraping against the floor, his sharp voice cutting through the silence.

"Are you serious right now?" he snapped, eyes blazing as he looked around the room. "Are we really acting like we've lost already? Like we're some underdog team lucky to be here?"

The players lifted their heads, startled by his tone. Even Wenger paused, watching him intently.

Francesco's chest rose and fell as he struggled to contain his fury. "I get it. We're down 1-0. But what, just because we conceded one goal, we suddenly forget who we are?" He jabbed a finger toward the Arsenal crest on his jersey. "We've been on a fantastic run since November. Winning games, dominating teams. And what? A single goal makes us crumble?"

He let the silence hang for a moment, his eyes scanning his teammates, making sure they were really listening.

"We've been playing with our egos," he continued, his voice filled with frustration. "Thinking we're invincible just because we've been winning. But wake up! This is the Champions League! We don't win this game just because we wear an Arsenal shirt! We have to fight for it! We have to show them that we deserve it!"

The tension in the room shifted. Players who had been slumped forward now sat straighter, their eyes sharpening with newfound determination.

"This team," Francesco said, voice softer now but no less intense, "is one of the best in Europe. But tonight, we have to prove it. We have 45 minutes to turn this around. So tell me—are we going to roll over? Or are we going to go out there and show Monaco who we really are?"

Silence for a second.

Then, as if something had snapped inside them, the players erupted.

"Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!" The chant rang out in the locker room, voices growing louder with every repetition.

Wenger smiled slightly, nodding in approval. He stepped forward and clapped his hands to get their attention again.

"Good," he said simply, his voice calm but firm. "Now, let's go out and defeat Monaco."

With that, the players stormed out of the locker room, their boots clicking against the floor with purpose. Francesco felt his pulse quicken as they emerged from the tunnel, the roar of the Emirates crowd washing over them. He could see it in his teammates' eyes—they believed.

And now, they had to prove it.

As the second half kicked off, Arsenal came out with fire in their veins. From the first whistle, they played with aggression, pressing Monaco higher up the pitch. Francesco and Alexis pushed forward, cutting inside to overload the midfield, while Özil pulled the strings with precise passes.

In the 48th minute, Arsenal nearly found the equalizer. Özil played a perfect ball over the top for Giroud, who chested it down inside the box. He swiveled and shot, but Subašić once again came up with a huge save, diving low to parry the effort. The rebound fell to Francesco, who struck it first-time—but a Monaco defender threw himself in the way, blocking the shot.

The frustration grew, but Arsenal didn't stop attacking.

Then, in the 53rd minute, disaster struck again.

Monaco, under relentless pressure, suddenly found a way out. Fabinho intercepted a risky pass from Coquelin and immediately launched the counterattack.

Moutinho picked up the ball and drove forward, his eyes scanning the field. Francesco sprinted back, but it was too late—Moutinho had already spotted the run of Martial on the left.

Martial took off, his blistering speed catching Arsenal's defense out of position. Bellerín tried to keep up, but the young Frenchman was too quick. He surged down the wing and, just as Koscielny came sliding in, he cut the ball back into the box.

Berbatov was waiting.

The Bulgarian striker, calm as ever, took one touch to control the pass and another to fire a powerful shot past Ospina.

2-0.

A stunned silence filled the Emirates.

Berbatov barely celebrated—just a small smirk as he jogged back toward midfield. It was a statement goal. A reminder of his class.

Francesco stood frozen, hands on his hips. He could feel the weight of the moment. Arsenal had been playing their hearts out, and yet, they were two goals down.

For a second, doubt tried to creep in.

Then he shook his head.

No. Not tonight.

Francesco turned to his teammates, clapping his hands aggressively. "Come on! We're not done! Keep pushing!"

Wenger was already barking orders from the touchline, signaling for more urgency.

Arsenal responded.

Just two minutes after conceding, they nearly pulled one back. Sánchez danced past two defenders on the left flank before whipping in a low cross. Francesco sprinted into the box, stretching to meet the ball—but Subašić was there again, somehow blocking his effort from close range.

The frustration was unbearable. They were doing everything right—except scoring.

Then, in the 58th minute, Wenger made his move.

Rosický and Walcott were called to the sideline.

Giroud and Coquelin came off.

Francesco moved into a central role, playing behind Walcott, who slotted in as the striker.

Walcott's pace immediately changed the game. In the 62nd minute, he broke free on the right side and drilled a shot toward the bottom corner. Subašić saved it, but the rebound fell to Francesco just outside the box.

This time, he didn't hesitate.

He struck the ball cleanly, lacing it with power and precision.

It soared past Subašić and crashed into the back of the net.

2-1.

The Emirates exploded.

Francesco didn't celebrate for long—just a quick fist pump before he sprinted back to the center circle, urging his teammates to reset. They still had time.

Monaco, for the first time, looked shaken.

Arsenal smelled blood.

They pushed relentlessly, attacking in waves. Özil, freed from deep defensive duties, started dictating the tempo. Bellerín bombed forward, delivering dangerous crosses.

Then, in the 68th minute, it happened.

Rosický, the magician, picked up the ball on the edge of the box. With a quick turn, he found Sánchez making a run behind the defense. The Chilean controlled it beautifully before cutting it back to Francesco.

Francesco took one touch.

Then fired.

The ball smashed into the net.

2-2.

The Emirates erupted in chaos.

Francesco clenched his fists, screaming in pure adrenaline as his teammates swarmed him. The comeback was almost complete.

The celebrations had barely died down when Arsenal jogged back to their half, their hearts still pounding with adrenaline. The roar of the Emirates was deafening, fans chanting, jumping, believing again. Francesco wiped the sweat from his brow, his mind already locked onto the next moment.

They weren't done yet.

Monaco kicked off, their players visibly rattled. Their once-composed passing game had turned erratic, Arsenal's relentless pressing forcing hurried touches and misplaced passes. Wenger, standing on the touchline with his arms crossed, watched as his players hunted in packs, suffocating Monaco's midfield.

Francesco felt the shift in momentum. This was their time. They weren't just going to equalize. They were going to win.

And in the 71st minute, Arsenal struck again.

It started with Rosický winning possession high up the pitch. He intercepted a weak clearance from Wallace and quickly fed Özil, who turned with his trademark elegance and drove forward.

Francesco saw the play unfold before it even happened. He darted into space, Özil finding him with a perfectly weighted pass. Elderson rushed in, trying to close him down, but Francesco didn't even need to look—he already knew what he was going to do.

With a quick flick of his heel, he sent the ball rolling behind him in a dazzling backheel pass.

Alexis Sánchez was already moving.

He latched onto the pass, took one touch to steady himself, and then rifled a shot past Subašić.

3-2.

The Emirates exploded.

Sánchez tore off toward the corner flag, fists pumping, his face alight with joy. Behind him, Arsenal players rushed in, swarming him in a euphoric celebration. Francesco, still catching his breath, let out a triumphant yell as he joined the pile of bodies.

The entire stadium was bouncing. Fans waved scarves, clapped, sang at the top of their lungs. The disbelief of being 2-0 down was gone—now, only sheer belief remained.

Wenger punched the air on the touchline. He turned to his coaching staff, shouting, "This is what we do!"

Monaco looked shell-shocked. Their players trudged back to their positions, hands on hips, heads shaking. They had started the night controlling the game, but now, they were drowning under Arsenal's intensity.

The referee blew the whistle for kickoff again, but Arsenal weren't backing down.

They pressed with even more urgency, sensing Monaco's desperation. Francesco could see it in their eyes—they were shaken. Every Arsenal player knew it.

And so, they kept attacking.

In the 75th minute, Walcott almost put the game to bed. Bellerín, who had been an engine all night, burst down the right flank and whipped in a cross. Walcott sprinted into the box, stretched out a boot—but Subašić somehow got a hand to it, pushing the shot onto the post.

Francesco gritted his teeth. So close.

Monaco were clinging on for dear life.

They tried to push forward, but Arsenal's midfield trio of Özil, Rosický, and Cazorla controlled the game beautifully, cutting off passing lanes and winning back possession before Monaco could build anything meaningful.

Time was running out.

The clock hit 80 minutes, and the tension in the stadium was thick. The fans were on their feet, urging their team to hold on—or, better yet, kill the game off completely.

Monaco, desperate, threw more men forward. Berbatov dropped deeper to get involved, Martial stayed high, waiting for a counterattack opportunity. Arsenal needed to stay sharp.

And then, in the 85th minute, the golden chance came.

Monaco were stretched, leaving gaps in their defense.

Özil picked up the ball near the halfway line and spotted Walcott making a run. He played a gorgeous long pass over the top, and Walcott was through.

The entire stadium held its breath.

Walcott sprinted, his eyes locked on the goal. He reached the ball just before the defender, cut inside, and prepared to shoot—

But Wallace lunged in desperately, bringing him down just inside the box.

The referee didn't hesitate.

Penalty.

The Emirates erupted again, cheers mixed with whistles of frustration from Monaco's bench.

Walcott, still on the ground, clenched his fists. He knew what this meant.

Walcott stood over the ball, his breathing steady despite the chaos around him. The crowd at the Emirates had fallen into a hushed anticipation, thousands of eyes locked onto him. Subašić, standing on the goal line, smirked and started talking, waving his hands.

"You're gonna miss," the goalkeeper taunted, shaking his head. "Pressure's too much, isn't it?"

Walcott didn't flinch. He'd heard it all before. Mind games wouldn't shake him.

The referee blew his whistle.

Walcott took a deep breath and began his run-up.

Subašić dived to his left.

Walcott, calm as ever, slotted the ball to the right.

The net rippled.

Goal.

4-2.

The Emirates erupted again, the sheer volume shaking the stadium. Walcott wheeled away in celebration, punching the air as his teammates rushed toward him. Francesco was the first to reach him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him excitedly.

"That's it! That's the game!" Francesco shouted over the deafening noise.

Walcott beamed, surrounded by teammates, the weight of the moment sinking in. Arsenal had done it. They had turned a nightmare into a dream, clawing their way back from 2-0 down to a two-goal lead. The energy in the stadium was electric, every fan bouncing, singing, and waving their scarves in pure joy.

Wenger, standing at the touchline, allowed himself a rare grin. His team had fought like champions. They had shown heart, resilience, and above all, belief.

As Monaco restarted the game, there was an undeniable air of resignation about them. They had tried, they had played their part in a thrilling match, but Arsenal had outclassed them in the second half.

But still, the game wasn't over yet.

When the clock hit 90 minutes, the fourth official raised his signboard.

Five minutes of added time.

The Arsenal fans whistled, urging the referee to blow the final whistle already. Francesco, breathing hard, urged his teammates to stay focused. "One last push!" he called out.

Monaco, to their credit, didn't roll over. They pushed forward, desperate for a way back into the match. Bernardo Silva, who had replaced Dirar earlier, began pulling the strings in midfield, looking for gaps in Arsenal's defense.

In the 94th minute, they found one.

Bernardo Silva drifted inside from the right, scanning for an option. Francesco stepped in to press, but Silva feinted and slipped a beautiful pass through Arsenal's backline.

Yannick Carrasco, who had replaced Martial in the 76th minute, was already on the move. He darted into the box, controlling the ball with his first touch and setting himself up with his second.

Ospina rushed out.

Too late.

Carrasco struck the ball low and hard, tucking it into the bottom corner.

4-3.

A hush fell over the Emirates for just a moment, the tension returning. Monaco players rushed to grab the ball from the net, sprinting back to the center circle. They had one minute left—one final chance.

Francesco exchanged looks with his teammates. No words were needed. They had to hold the line.

As Monaco restarted play, they threw everything forward. Even Subašić hovered near the halfway line, watching anxiously.

Arsenal sat deep, every player committed to defending. Bellerín and Monreal blocked the wings, while Mertesacker and Koscielny commanded the center.

Monaco launched one final attack.

A long ball from Fabinho soared into the Arsenal box. Berbatov, the experienced target man, rose highest, nodding it down. The ball fell dangerously toward Carrasco again, who prepared to strike—

—but Koscielny slid in with a perfectly timed challenge, blocking the shot.

The ball bounced loose. Francesco lunged, clearing it upfield with everything he had.

The referee checked his watch.

Then—

The whistle blew.

Full-time.

Arsenal 4, Monaco 3.

The Emirates exploded one final time, the Arsenal players collapsing onto the pitch in exhaustion and relief. Francesco, hands on his knees, let out a deep breath before standing up, a wide grin on his face. They had done it.

Walcott fell into Francesco's arms, laughing. "That was insane," he breathed.

Francesco nodded, glancing up at the scoreboard. From 2-0 down to a thrilling 4-3 victory. This was what football was all about.

As they walked off the pitch, the fans stayed, chanting their names. The night had been unforgettable. Arsenal had proved they weren't just a team with talent.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : None

Match Played: 16

Goal: 21

Assist: 11

MOTM: 6