225. Againts Chelsea PT.2

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The boy-captain leading men, dragging the front line into battle, chasing lost causes, pressing with relentless hunger. He pointed, shouted, demanded. Not with arrogance — with belief. That kind of belief Wenger used to talk about, quietly, like a priest whispering a gospel and the game had only just begun.

The match burned on — fierce, tight, and electric. And as the clock crept into the 25th minute, the tension that had been building between the lines, between the tackles, between the teeth-gritting bursts of pace from both sides, finally snapped.

Arsenal struck.

It began, fittingly, not from a moment of magic — but from pure grit.

Kanté again was the spark. Chelsea were trying to reset from the back, shifting laterally to draw Arsenal's press and break through with quick passes. But Kanté read it. He always did. Fabregas tried a casual ball into Matic, looking for space to break the lines. Kanté exploded forward, stuck out a toe, and nicked it clean.

The ball ricocheted to Cazorla, who was already spinning away from his man. One touch to Özil.

And then the pitch opened up.

Özil was central, just behind the halfway line, and everything about his posture screamed calm — head up, shoulders loose, arms moving in that liquid, weightless way he had. The German let the ball roll slightly in front of him, and in that second, Francesco darted.

The run was perfect. Right between Cahill and Ivanović, who had glanced over their shoulders a fraction too late.

Özil's pass was weighted like a prayer. Not too hard, not too soft — just enough to glide past the Chelsea line, hugging the grass like it was born to follow Francesco's movement.

Francesco didn't hesitate.

He was through.

This time, the ball was tight to his feet. This time, the angle was clean.

He touched it once with his right, bringing it across his body to shield from Cahill's lunge. Then another with his left to steady.

Begovic charged.

The noise swelled — a blur of blue and red and white banners waving in the stands.

Francesco didn't look up.

He knew.

His eyes were on the ball, and his instinct did the rest.

A right-footed strike, low and across goal. Driven, clean, purposeful.

Begovic dove.

But he wasn't getting there.

The ball kissed the inside of the far post and rippled the net.

1–0.

Silence.

For a heartbeat, Stamford Bridge just stopped.

Then, in the upper corner where the away supporters were boxed in, bedlam.

Red shirts crashed into one another, scarves flailed in the air, and the chant began again — louder, prouder.

"Arsenal! Arsenal!"

Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag, arms out, face split in a wild, roaring smile. Walcott and Alexis caught up first, mobbing him, followed by Özil, who wore a rare grin of satisfaction, one arm curled around Francesco's shoulder like a proud older brother.

Even Cazorla arrived, arms wide as if he wanted to hug the whole front line at once.

Behind them, van Dijk raised a fist calmly in the direction of the away end, nodding once before turning to refocus.

Back on the Arsenal bench, Wenger exhaled deeply — just once — then clapped, restrained as always but with that unmistakable glint in his eyes. This was his project, his gamble. A sixteen-year-old striker leading the line at Stamford Bridge. A new spine, rebuilt from the bones of past failures.

And here they were, twenty-five minutes in, ahead.

Mourinho, meanwhile, was frozen.

His jaw was tight. His hands stayed in his pockets. No shouts now, no sarcastic claps or sideline theatrics. Just the quiet burning of a man who had watched his system sliced open by a teenager and a playmaker he once dismissed as too "fragile for England."

Francesco trotted back to the centre circle, clapping his hands, nodding at Özil again in thanks. He glanced toward Wenger, who gave him a subtle gesture — fingers to the temple, reminding him: stay sharp. It's only 1–0.

Chelsea tried to respond immediately.

Hazard charged forward from the restart, all twitching hips and quick turns. He danced past Bellerín, surged past Cazorla, and let fly from 25 yards.

But Cech, the old guardian, was there again. Two firm hands, solid catch, no rebound.

The game had rhythm now — not just intensity. The kind of rhythm that made it feel like a proper, old-school English top-flight clash. Fire in the challenges. Elegance in the passes. Tactical war beneath the chaos.

But there was one side now playing with an extra ounce of belief.

Arsenal.

Van Dijk and Koscielny barked instructions, reshaping the back four after every Chelsea attack. Kanté covered every blade of grass, intercepting, tackling, recovering.

And Francesco — the goal-scorer, the captain — was relentless.

When Arsenal pressed, he was the first to lead the line, chasing down Zouma and Ivanović like a man possessed. When they countered, he was sprinting into space, drawing defenders out wide to let Özil and Alexis work the middle.

On the 31st minute, Arsenal nearly doubled the lead.

Again, it was Özil, floating into the half-space. He sent a delicate chip over the Chelsea backline, and Walcott was in behind.

One touch to control. Then a left-footed shot from a narrow angle.

Begovic got a glove to it, and the rebound bounced dangerously into the six-yard box before Cahill cleared with Francesco charging in.

So close again.

Chelsea were rattled.

And Mourinho was pacing now, muttering to Rui Faria beside him, gesturing toward Matic, demanding more support.

But Matic couldn't breathe.

Kanté was glued to him. Every time he touched the ball, the Frenchman was there — harassing, jabbing, winning.

By the 35th minute, Arsenal had grown in confidence. The midfield triangle — Cazorla, Özil, Kanté — rotated so seamlessly that Chelsea couldn't track them all. When one dropped, the other surged. When Özil drifted left, Alexis came central. When Cazorla held, Bellerín overlapped.

And Francesco was always an option. Always making the run, always available, always pressing.

Wenger stood calmly, watching it unfold. This wasn't luck. This wasn't a one-off.

This was his team now.

Built to last.

But there were still 55 minutes left to play.

And Chelsea — for all their early struggles — were not beaten yet.

In the 38th minute, they had a chance.

Pedro cut inside from the right and found Fabregas again. This time, the Spaniard disguised a low ball to Hazard on the edge of the box. One touch, turn, shoot — quick and sharp.

But again, Cech was there.

Six saves now.

And on each of them, he made it look routine.

The Arsenal fans sang louder.

"Francesco Lee! He's one of our own!"

The name echoed around the stadium, defiant. A sixteen-year-old, already their hero. Their leader.

The roar from the away end was still echoing through the bones of Stamford Bridge when Chelsea finally started to grow back into the match.

There was no panic — not yet. But something sharp flickered beneath the surface of Mourinho's expression. The early dominance Arsenal had exerted, the clean channels they'd opened, the disruption wrought by Kanté, Özil, and Francesco — it had punctured Chelsea's rhythm, pulled their structure apart. Still, they hadn't crumbled. And champions, real champions, always find a way to respond.

They didn't do it through intricate passing or sudden elegance.

They went back to basics.

By the 40th minute, Chelsea had slowed the tempo, begun absorbing pressure and pushing for set pieces. You could see the shift: Ivanović overlapping more aggressively, Hazard tucking in to invite fouls, and Costa throwing his elbows wider, grumbling louder, drawing the referee's eye.

Arsenal's defensive shape held — mostly. But the shadows of previous seasons hovered, flickering faintly. Arsenal fans had seen this before: strong starts unraveling under the weight of one mistake, one slip.

And in the 42nd minute, that flicker turned to flame.

Chelsea earned a corner after a hopeful Pedro strike deflected off Monreal's hip and looped wide of the near post. The Chelsea fans, until now subdued, found their voices again, clapping and whistling as Fabregas jogged over to take the kick. He picked up the ball with a familiar motion — crisp, almost surgical — and placed it with care just inside the arc. His eyes darted briefly toward the box, scanning.

He knew the target.

Kurt Zouma stood near the edge of the six-yard line, jostling with Koscielny. The two had battled all afternoon — shoulder to shoulder, tug for tug — and so far, the Frenchman had held his own. But Zouma had been patient. Waiting.

This was his moment.

Fabregas raised an arm, then whipped the ball in — vicious, flat, the kind of delivery that begged for contact.

Zouma broke.

One shove. One feint.

That was all it took.

Koscielny slipped half a step behind. Not a full yard. Just enough.

Zouma rose, unchallenged, twisted his neck muscles like a spring uncoiling, and met the ball clean with his forehead.

CRACK.

It flew past Cech before he could even react.

Top corner. No chance.

1–1.

The Bridge erupted.

The noise came in waves — an explosion of relief more than triumph. They hadn't been outplayed all match, but they had been outmatched in certain phases. And now, suddenly, they were level.

Zouma wheeled away, thumping his chest, shouting toward the crowd as Ivanović leapt on his back and Fabregas followed with outstretched arms. Behind them, Costa punched the air and nodded toward the bench, mouthing something at Mourinho that couldn't quite be read.

Cech stood still, frozen in the goalmouth, staring up at the ball now nestling into the net behind him. Koscielny crouched low, hands on knees, eyes closed for a second longer than usual.

It was a rare lapse — and a costly one.

Wenger turned away from the scene, jaw tight. He didn't yell. Didn't gesture. But his eyes flicked briefly to Bould beside him, and in that flick was a storm: frustration, calculation, steel.

On the pitch, Francesco gathered the ball from the net and jogged it back to the centre circle.

No drama. No panic.

Just the look of a captain who wasn't about to let one moment dictate the afternoon.

Still, Arsenal felt it.

That momentary lapse, that old ghost. The kind that could unravel lesser teams.

And maybe, once upon a time, it would have. But not this time.

Kanté clapped his hands once, loud and sharp, and barked at Cazorla to tuck in.

Van Dijk called out to Koscielny — not with blame, but urgency — refocusing him.

Özil turned toward Francesco, pointed at the Chelsea box, and said something only the two of them could hear. Francesco nodded.

The restart was immediate.

And Arsenal didn't crumble. They came again.

The 44th minute saw them flow forward — Özil skipping past Matic, Alexis dropping deep and dragging Azpilicueta with him. The ball moved like mercury, fluid and fast, every touch loaded with intent.

Cazorla lofted one over the top for Walcott. Zouma tried to recover — still high on his goal, perhaps a little too high — but Walcott was quicker.

He got there, chested it down, and tried to volley from the edge of the box.

But the shot sliced wide.

Not far, but not close enough.

Then suddenly, on the 45+2nd minute — as the first half teetered on the edge of equilibrium — it happened.

Chelsea struck again.

And this time, it was Eden Hazard, in full, devastating flight.

It started innocuously enough. Arsenal had just tried to squeeze one last attack before the whistle. Özil's angled pass toward Alexis was cut out sharply by Ivanović, who hoofed it long, bypassing the midfield entirely. Cazorla tried to recover, but the ball fell to Oscar in the centre circle, and suddenly the tempo shifted. Like a knife twisting in rhythm, Chelsea's break moved with intent — not reckless, but razor-sharp.

Hazard picked it up just over the halfway line, with space ahead of him.

Bellerín backpedaled.

Too much space. Too much hesitation.

Hazard slowed. Jinked. Feinted left. Then burst right.

In a blink, he was past the young Spaniard, shoulders low, boots kissing the pitch with every elegant, deadly stride. Arsenal's defensive line, still recalibrating from the forward push, staggered to recover. Van Dijk stepped forward, reading the danger, eyes locked on Hazard — but that's when Oscar made his move.

Hazard slipped him the ball with a deft toe-poke.

Oscar — clever, crisp — took a single touch and clipped it straight back, a soft, precise return that landed perfectly into Hazard's stride.

That was the moment. Right there.

Van Dijk hesitated — caught between cutting off the pass and committing to the run.

It was enough.

Hazard, now just outside the box, surged between Van Dijk and Koscielny, both a half-step too slow. The Belgian barely broke stride. His right foot ghosted over the ball before he shifted it left, shaping his body as if to go far post.

Cech anticipated it.

But Hazard, with a flicker of mischief and murder in his eyes, went near post instead.

Low. Clean. Ruthless.

Cech dived.

But he wasn't getting there.

The ball nestled into the bottom corner.

2–1.

The stadium exploded.

This was not a roar of relief this time. This was triumph — and malice. The kind of joy only a great goal brings, scored by a great player, against a great team.

Hazard peeled away toward the corner flag, arms wide, face lit with that boyish grin that had so often made defenders look foolish and fans fall in love. Oscar sprinted to meet him, laughing, grabbing his shirt, shouting in his ear. Behind them, the Chelsea bench rose in unison, fists in the air. Mourinho punched the air, then turned sharply to his staff, barking orders even in celebration. He wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

Back on the pitch, Arsenal's defenders were frozen. Van Dijk stood still, hands on hips, chewing the inside of his cheek. Koscielny cursed softly in French. Bellerín bent over, hands on his thighs, shaking his head. Cazorla stared toward midfield, motionless, eyes narrowed.

Cech sat on the turf, legs splayed, looking at the net he used to defend in blue. It wasn't his fault — not really — but he felt it anyway.

Francesco was the first to move.

He didn't curse. He didn't complain. He turned to the sideline, lifted a hand to signal calm, then called out — sharp, commanding:

"Forget it. We go again."

And they would.

But first, they had to survive the whistle.

It came just seconds later.

Halftime.

Chelsea 2, Arsenal 1.

The walk back to the tunnel was different this time.

No smiles. No nods. Just focus — and frustration.

Francesco was the last to enter the tunnel. He looked once at Hazard, who was still basking in the cheers from the crowd. Their eyes met for a brief second. No hatred. No theatrics.

Just recognition.

The Belgian had struck like a champion. And now, it was Francesco's turn to answer.

The Arsenal dressing room door closed with a dull thud, sealing in the weight of the moment.

Wenger stood still at the entrance for a long beat, arms folded. No clipboard now. No papers. He didn't need them.

The players sat, breathing heavy, jerseys clinging to their backs, some leaning forward with elbows on knees, others just staring at the floor.

Cazorla sipped from a water bottle, eyes glazed with thought. Özil had his shirt off, towel around his neck, deep in conversation with Alexis, low and fast Spanish murmurs about Hazard's movement. Bellerín looked furious — not at anyone, but at himself — shaking his head over and over again.

Van Dijk? Calm. Still. But inside, he was replaying the moment again and again — the half-second hesitation that let Hazard slip past him. It wasn't catastrophic. But it had been enough.

Only Francesco looked Wenger directly in the eye when the manager finally stepped forward.

"Listen."

Just that, at first.

The room quieted.

"They got us. Not because they're better — not over ninety minutes. They got us because we switched off. Twice. Once on the corner. Once in transition."

He began to walk slowly in front of the seated players.

"They punished us like top teams do. Zouma wanted it more in that moment. Hazard was allowed to run without fear. That's on us. But it doesn't mean they've beaten us."

He stopped, looking at Koscielny, then to Van Dijk, and then to Kanté.

"This game is ours to take back. We've played better football. We've dominated for large spells. They're leading now — but they're not comfortable. Mourinho knows it. He'll sit deeper. Try to control it. That's not how they want to play."

Then his voice hardened.

"Let them feel it."

He pointed to Francesco.

"You lead us. Again."

The 16-year-old met the stare and nodded once, firm.

Wenger continued, now louder, more animated.

"Mesut — more between the lines. Alexis — isolate Ivanović. He's aging. We use that. Walcott — keep stretching them. If we pull Azpilicueta inside, there's space behind."

Then, to Kanté:

"Find Hazard. Lock him down. I don't care how you do it."

Kanté, ever the silent soldier, gave a firm nod.

Wenger let the moment breathe, then clapped once — sharp.

"Now go out there and show them. Show them who we are."

The roar from the Arsenal fans was louder now — not in triumph, but in defiance.

They'd seen their team go behind before. They'd seen worse. But this team… this team was different. You could feel it. Even in the stands.

And they started like a team reborn.

The second-half whistle had barely faded when Arsenal surged forward with purpose.

Özil to Cazorla. Cazorla to Alexis. Alexis to Walcott — and just like that, they were slicing through Chelsea again, testing the defensive line that had just minutes ago strutted into the tunnel with the arrogance of a two-goal swing.

In the 48th minute, Francesco nearly leveled it.

It began with a turnover — Kanté, relentless as ever, dispossessing Fabregas near the centre circle. He fed Özil, who turned on a dime and floated a ball over the top.

Francesco darted between Terry and Zouma, perfectly timing his run.

The ball dropped.

One touch.

Left foot.

Hit clean.

But Begović was equal to it — just barely.

He palmed it wide with a full-stretch dive.

Arsenal were knocking again.

And Chelsea knew it.

Mourinho stood now, hands on his hips, jaw tight, shouting at Matic to drop deeper, at Oscar to track back harder.

But Arsenal kept coming.

Kanté was everywhere — a blur in midfield, breaking up play, carrying forward, slipping passes through.

Özil began weaving his magic, ghosting into space, luring defenders, drawing fouls.

Alexis tortured Ivanović, spinning past him twice, then nearly winning a penalty in the 54th minute after a shoulder-to-shoulder battle that saw him tumble into the box — only for the referee to wave it away.

And all the while, Francesco kept moving.

He wasn't just a striker.

He was a fulcrum — pulling Terry wide, dragging Zouma deep, creating pockets for Walcott, for Özil, for Alexis. He dropped, he turned, he accelerated, and every time he touched the ball, the crowd leaned forward.

You could feel the goal coming.

They all could.

The Bridge was no longer confident. It was anxious. Unsettled. A stadium that had seen leads before — and watched them vanish as the clock continue to ticked on. And Mourinho was preparing his changes, because he knew what was coming next.

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Name : Francesco Lee

Age : 16 (2014)

Birthplace : London, England

Football Club : Arsenal First Team

Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield

Season 15/16 stats:

Arsenal:

Match Played: 7

Goal: 11

Assist: 0

MOTM: 0

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9