If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
The bus rolled away into the Zagreb night. The city lights glimmered on the windows. And inside, among friends and warriors, Francesco leaned back, headphones on, eyes closed.
The next morning, the sun crept over the tree line at London Colney, casting long golden beams across the training pitches. The air was crisp, the sky a clear September blue—the kind of morning that felt made for football. Francesco arrived early, his BMW X5 gliding smoothly into its usual spot, still carrying the scent of last night's exertions: deep breaths, high fives, sweat, and glory.
He sat for a moment, engine off, hands on the wheel, just soaking it in—the quiet after the storm. The match in Zagreb still lived vividly in his mind: the goals, the comeback, the way they had hunted Dinamo down like wolves. But there was no time to bask. Not in this league. Not with the fixture list looming.
Leicester City were next. Saturday. Two days away.
And Francesco knew—knew better than anyone in that dressing room—what kind of threat they truly were.
He had lived it before.
In his former life—this strange, flickering memory he carried like a second soul—Leicester City had stormed the Premier League. Underdogs turned champions. A miracle, they'd called it. Pundits had scratched their heads for months. How? How had they done it?
There were many answers, but one name had towered above the rest.
N'Golo Kanté.
And this time, Kanté was not at Leicester.
He was at Arsenal.
Francesco smiled to himself, stepping out of the car and slinging his bag over his shoulder. The balance of fate had shifted. He could feel it. The story was changing—because of him.
Inside the training center, the usual rhythm pulsed. Coaches reviewed footage on tablets. Physios darted between rooms. Boots thudded softly on the indoor turf. Francesco exchanged greetings with the staff as he passed—always polite, always focused.
In the changing room, laughter echoed from the showers. Giroud's deep French baritone. Walcott's clipped London rhythm. Flamini was telling a story, something about a dinner gone wrong in Zagreb, and Cazorla was howling with laughter.
Francesco changed quietly, his mind still half in the future. The moment he sat, Özil dropped beside him, phone in hand, nodding toward the screen.
"Four assists now for me," he said casually, "in six games. Not bad, eh?"
Francesco smirked. "You're not done yet."
Özil shrugged. "Neither are you."
As training began on the grass, Wenger kept it light but intense. Recovery was the priority—but so was rhythm. The group that had played in Zagreb went through a reduced session: rondos, positional work, some sprints. The rest played a small-sided match on the far pitch.
From the sidelines, Wenger watched everything. Always silent, always observing, fingers on his chin.
Francesco drifted during the cool down, eyes scanning the pitch. Leicester.
They'd be in a 4-4-2 that can change to 4-4-1-1, tight lines, explosive transitions. Vardy up top, full of pace and venom. Mahrez on the right, tricky feet and a left foot like a whip. But the spine? In his old life, that spine had been Kanté. He'd covered every blade of grass, snuffed out every attack. Arsenal couldn't break them because of him.
But now… they had him.
As if summoned by thought, Kanté jogged past, giving Francesco a short nod.
"You ready for them?" Francesco asked.
Kanté grinned. "Always."
Francesco believed him.
The day flew by. Tactical meetings. Recovery in the hydro pools. Gym sessions. The energy in the camp was electric. Wenger and Bould ran film on Leicester, breaking them down piece by piece—without Kanté, they lacked bite in midfield. Drinkwater and King worked hard but lacked the same instincts. Still, their structure was intact. Claudio Ranieri had them drilled like clockwork. Deep block. Counterattack. Ruthless efficiency.
"We will not take them lightly," Wenger said on Thursday, addressing the whole squad in the tactical room. "They are not a fluke. They are not lucky. They are well-organized. Brave. Quick. We must play with intelligence, not ego."
Francesco nodded along. He knew what was coming.
The next day, the sky over London Colney was grey and drowsy, the kind of overcast that made time feel slower. Yet under that dull canopy, the players stirred with purpose. One by one, they trickled in, bags slung over shoulders, coffees in hand, the hum of anticipation trailing them like vapor. It was travel day. Arsenal were heading to Leicester.
Francesco arrived in a black tracksuit, hood up against the breeze, headphones hanging around his neck, tapping at his phone absently. His legs felt light, his mind sharp. The routine had become familiar: train, rest, travel, play. But this trip carried a weight that others didn't. Because he remembered. He remembered how the King Power Stadium had become a fortress. He remembered how Vardy would break from nowhere, how Mahrez would twist inside like a blade. But this wasn't 2016. This was now. And he wasn't watching from a sofa this time—he was in the story. He was the story.
By the entrance to the players' lounge, Coquelin was chatting with Monreal, both sipping protein shakes, talking in low, tired tones about something from training—likely a missed tackle or a tight rondo loss. Inside, Flamini was pacing, phone clutched to his ear, barking French into the line like a trader on the stock exchange. Giroud lounged on one of the leather sofas, legs stretched out, thumbing through Instagram stories with half a croissant in his mouth.
Walcott walked past Francesco and gave him a light tap on the back. "Heard you broke the GPS record again," he said. "Twelve-point-nine kilometers. You're trying to make the rest of us look bad."
Francesco grinned. "Just wanted to see if Zagreb was smaller than it looked."
Theo laughed, then lowered his voice slightly. "You think they'll press us? Leicester?"
Francesco shook his head. "Not full press. More like they'll bait us—sit tight, then spring. Like a mousetrap. If we're not compact, we'll get sliced."
He saw it in his mind like a film reel. Vardy drifting behind the back line. Mahrez cutting inside, curling one toward the top corner. Ranieri clapping from the sideline with that soft, proud father smile. It was déjà vu with a twist.
By 11:00 a.m., the team bus was parked out front, purring, windows tinted, polished so clean it reflected the clouds above. Bags were loaded in the undercarriage by the kit staff—Simon, the lanky old Geordie, directing traffic like a general. A few of the younger players, like Chambers and Iwobi, hung near the back of the group, carrying their PlayStation controllers and debating FIFA stats with the kind of fiery intensity only twenty-year-olds could manage.
Wenger emerged from the building last, coat buttoned despite the mild chill, nodding once to Bould as he stepped onto the bus. Bould was already seated up front with a thick binder open across his lap, marked pages bristling with tabs—corners, free kicks, passing patterns. Across from him, Jens Lehmann muttered something about aerial duels, his German accent cutting through the air like a cleaver.
Francesco claimed his usual seat near the middle, beside Özil. The two rarely spoke during bus rides—it was a quiet truce, a kind of shared stillness. They watched the road and listened to the hum of the tires, the low chatter, the occasional snore. Sometimes Francesco would glance out the window, watching the scenery roll by like a moving painting—green fields, rusted fences, long stone walls broken up by grazing sheep and patches of bramble.
They arrived at the private terminal in Luton just after noon. No fanfare. No photographers. Just a swift check-in, security, and onto the plane. The short flight to Leicester was smooth, uneventful. Wenger sat at the front with his staff, scribbling into a leather-bound notebook. The rest of the team relaxed—some napped, some read, some flicked through match footage on tablets.
Francesco sat quietly with his headphones on, not listening to music but to an old commentary clip saved on his phone: "And it's Jamie Vardy, again! Leicester City are flying!" The voice rang in his ears like a bell toll. That was then.
Now, it was time for new headlines.
They landed to light drizzle and a cool breeze, the East Midlands wrapped in a misty calm that belied the intensity waiting at the King Power. A fleet of blacked-out vans took them from the airport straight to their hotel—an upscale place tucked behind trees on the edge of the city, far from prying eyes and city center noise.
The team was given a few hours to rest before dinner. Some players headed straight to their rooms, collapsing onto plush beds or disappearing into marble-tiled showers. Francesco, restless as ever, slipped down to the hotel gym with Theo and Virgil van Dijk, who kept things light—light jogs, some stretches, nothing more. There was a quiet focus among them, the kind that came from belief, not pressure.
Afterward, they gathered in the team lounge for tactical briefings. Wenger stood at the head of the room, a projector humming behind him. The screen showed grainy footage of Leicester's last two matches: Vardy's diagonal runs, Mahrez's feints, the way they doubled the wings defensively.
"Mahrez has freedom," Wenger said. "He will drift. So Gibbs must stay alert—but he needs help. That means Alexis. No jogging back."
Sanchez nodded.
"Kanté," Wenger continued, turning slightly. "You are the key. Vardy will try to play off the shoulder. Don't chase him. Cut the line before the pass."
Kanté gave a small, clipped nod. He didn't speak often in these meetings, but when he did, everyone listened.
Bould chimed in with the set-piece notes: Morgan's late runs. Huth's back-post threat. Drinkwater's deliveries. All things they knew, but details mattered.
By the time the meeting wrapped up, dinner was waiting—grilled chicken, rice, vegetables, pasta, hydration drinks. Francesco ate methodically, fueling his body like a machine. Özil ate like a bird. Ramsey talked like a storm.
They turned in early. By 10:00, most lights were off. But Francesco lay awake for a while, eyes tracing the ceiling. Outside his window, the wind rustled trees. Inside, his heart was steady but eager.
He could almost hear the crowd already.
Matchday.
The morning broke with a soft gold light spreading over the city. The players ate breakfast together, suited up in their matchday tracksuits, and boarded the bus. Leicester was buzzing by the time they rolled in. Blue shirts everywhere. Flags hanging from lampposts. Chants already starting. The King Power Stadium was a hive.
Inside the away dressing room, shirts were hung. Boots laid out. Nameplates gleaming.
Francesco pulled on hit training kit, tugged up his socks, and tightened his boots. The captain's armband was laid neatly atop his jersey.
Wenger came in just before warm-up.
"We are better. But they are brave. This is not a day to walk. This is a day to run. You want to win the league? Win here."
He turned to Francesco. "Lead them."
Francesco nodded. His throat was dry, but his voice wasn't.
"We don't let them breathe."
The stadium roared in rolling waves as Arsenal stepped onto the pitch for their warm-up, a sea of blue and white rising around them like a living tide. The King Power Stadium was already full, long before kickoff, with home fans thumping the stands, chanting for Vardy, Mahrez, for the dream that never died. They were believers here. They remembered the story, and they wanted to write it again.
But so did Arsenal.
Francesco jogged across the turf in a black training top, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His breath misted slightly in the cool air as he exchanged a one-two with Bellerín, then flicked the ball to Alexis. Touches were sharp, focus laser-thin. There were no jokes now. No selfies. No posturing. Just fire in the veins.
He glanced across the pitch once—caught Vardy in his peripheral, stretching near the center circle, grinning through a conversation with Mahrez. That old grin, the one that said: I know something you don't. But Francesco had seen this all before. And this time, he was here to break it.
Wenger stood near the tunnel, arms folded, unmoving. He never said much during warm-up—he trusted the players to find their rhythm. Steve Bould monitored closely from behind the goal, stopwatch in hand, watching every sprint, every reaction, whispering with Jens Lehmann about body language and readiness.
After 45 minutes of running patterns, close-control drills, and shooting reps, the squad jogged off together, claps from the away end following them down the tunnel. The dressing room was waiting—lit in warm light, smelling faintly of liniment and freshly laundered kits. The match shirts hung proudly in a single line, white names stamped bold on red.
Francesco peeled off his training top and sat down in front of his locker. He stared at the No. 9 jersey for a long moment. Lee. He hadn't worn that name in the other life. It still felt strange sometimes. But now it was soaked in meaning. He wasn't just a piece of this story. He was shaping it.
One by one, the others changed. Socks pulled up. Shin pads slid in. Bellerín laced his boots double-tight. Alexis bounced on his toes, slapping his thighs. Özil sat cross-legged for a moment, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Walcott twirled his wedding ring on a chain around his neck.
Wenger stepped in, clipboard in hand, and silence fell like a curtain.
"We play 4-2-3-1," he began, voice firm but even. "Nothing new. But the tempo must be ours."
He turned to the board.
"Cech in goal. Back four: Monreal, Koscielny, Van Dijk, Bellerín. Solid. Aggressive. No high line—we stay compact. Force them wide. Vardy will drift. Mahrez will cut inside. Stay awake."
Cech nodded once, already focused. His gloves were strapped, his head bowed slightly like a knight waiting for the gate to rise.
Wenger moved on.
"Kanté and Cazorla in midfield. You protect. You build. If we keep the ball, we win this match. Özil in the ten. Find the gaps. Draw Drinkwater out. Force them to collapse."
Özil raised a brow, the hint of a smirk at his lips. He lived for those gaps.
"Walcott right. Alexis left. They'll press the wings hard, but if you time it, you're through. Francesco—up top."
All eyes turned to him, and he nodded, once. Calm. Ready.
"You stretch them. Run the line. You are faster than their center-backs. Use it. Be intelligent. Be ruthless."
Then he stepped back, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"Subs: Ospina. Mertesacker. Ramsey. Flamini. Arteta. Oxlade-Chamberlain. Giroud. All ready."
Wenger let the silence hold a moment. Then, quietly, "We know what they are. But they don't know what we've become."
Francesco felt the charge ripple through his chest.
Wenger gave a final nod and stepped aside. The room snapped to life. Boots thudded against tile. Laces tightened. The armband was passed across the room to Francesco, and he slid it on with a quiet breath, the white band squeezing gently over his bicep like a seal of purpose.
"Let's go," he said, his voice steady but sharp.
The tunnel loomed, filled with the thunder of anticipation. Francesco walked at the front of the line, the Arsenal crest pressed against his chest, his boots clicking sharply on the concrete. The Leicester players were already there—Schmeichel bouncing, Morgan looming, Vardy still smiling.
They lined up. Handshakes. Rituals. The stadium trembled above them, drums and roars and the swell of collective faith.
And then the walk began.
Out into the light. Into the noise.
The King Power opened its throat and screamed.
Kickoff.
The whistle blew, and immediately the tempo crackled. Leicester came out fast, full of confidence, just as Francesco knew they would. Albrighton pressed high, Mahrez danced wide, Vardy ghosted between Van Dijk and Koscielny like a shadow in cleats.
But Arsenal didn't buckle.
Kanté was everywhere, gliding across the midfield like he'd never left this pitch. Tackles timed to the heartbeat. Cazorla moved like a maestro, shifting the ball with touches so subtle you missed them if you blinked.
Francesco dropped deep early, drawing Morgan out, slipping the ball back to Özil before spinning wide and dragging Simpson out of position. Alexis drifted in. Bellerín overlapped. One-two, whip across the box—Walcott just missed it by inches.
The crowd groaned. Leicester held their shape.
Ten minutes in, Vardy pounced on a loose touch from Monreal and roared down the left. Koscielny came across, hard, urgent—but Vardy cut in. Shot near post.
Cech. Big. Safe hands.
Arsenal built slowly from the back. Cazorla to Özil. Özil to Walcott. Walcott skipped past Fuchs, darted inside. Slid it across.
Francesco took it on the turn, edge of the box. One touch. Two. Fired—
Schmeichel saved.
Corner.
Özil jogged over, ball in hand, the away end on its feet. He floated it near post—Van Dijk rose, beat Huth in the air, nodded it down.
Francesco lunged.
Blocked on the line by Drinkwater.
Gasps.
The game was crackling now, fire in every touch.
Francesco felt it all, the weight of the crowd, the tug of gravity, the hum of memory whispering from the sidelines. He had lived this match once, watched it unfold from a distance. Now he was carving it fresh.
________________________________________________
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: 8
Goal: 14
Assist: 2
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