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As the referee checked his watch, Francesco rolled the ball beneath his sole once, twice. Then the whistle blew.
Then the match started.
Francesco tapped the ball to Özil, who feathered it back with a soft touch. Immediately, the game crackled to life.
Dinamo Zagreb burst forward like coiled springs released. Their press was intense—man-to-man from the first whistle. They weren't content to sit back and absorb. They wanted blood early. Francesco barely had a second to control a pass from Alexis before a crunching tackle from Arijan Ademi knocked the ball loose. The crowd roared at the aggression, their chants now thunder.
But Arsenal weren't shrinking. They matched it stride for stride.
Van Dijk intercepted the first cross into the box with a clean, rising header that arced toward Gibbs. Gibbs took it down and calmly shuffled it inside to Arteta, who withstood a press and swept it wide to Debuchy. Already, the ball zipped through the Arsenal lines.
Özil drifted into the right half-space, his movement ghostlike, and collected a pass from Debuchy. A flick through the line—effortless. Francesco read it. He burst diagonally across the center-backs, chasing the through-ball into space.
Eduardo was quick off his line. The Dinamo keeper smothered the ball just before Francesco's right boot could sweep it forward. The two collided lightly—enough to knock Francesco off his stride but not enough to draw a whistle. He was already back up, jogging into position, dusting grass from his arms.
The tempo was fierce.
By the fourth minute, both teams had attempted shots on goal. Soudani tried to curl one past Ospina from the edge of the box after Koscielny slipped momentarily. Ospina, fully alert, dove left and parried it one-handed. A moment later, Alexis danced past two defenders on the opposite end and rifled a shot from a tight angle—Eduardo got a strong palm to it, deflecting it up and away.
Six minutes gone. Two saves each.
Francesco dropped deeper than usual, coming into the midfield to link play. It was part of the plan—disrupt Dinamo's center-backs, pull them out of line. When he received the ball near the halfway circle and pivoted under pressure, two markers followed. That left space behind them, and Özil nearly threaded Ox through with a slicing ground pass. Close. Cleared just in time.
At the back, Van Dijk was already commanding. Twice he called out switches, repositioning Gibbs and Koscielny with a jab of his finger, like a general moving soldiers across a battlefield. His timing was immaculate—his tackles surgical. When Dinamo broke through down the right in the 11th minute, Van Dijk stepped across, took the ball cleanly from Pjaca's toe, and shielded it out for a goal kick. He didn't celebrate. He just pointed to Ospina to take it quick.
Back and forth. Thunder and reply.
Twelve minutes. Still 0–0. Still blistering.
Debuchy raced forward on the overlap and sent in a cross that curved away from Francesco at the last second. Ox got on the end of it instead, cushioning the ball with his thigh before volleying toward goal—but Eduardo was equal to it. A strong hand, down low, pushing it around the post.
Arsenal took the corner short—Özil to Alexis, then back to Mesut, who tried to carve in a cross with his left. It was punched away by Eduardo, straight into the air. Francesco leapt—he got a head to it, but it lacked power, and it floated gently into the keeper's gloves.
"Come on!" Alexis barked, clapping his hands.
Arsenal's press was smothering now. Arteta and Kante worked in a mechanical tandem, pressing and dropping, shifting side-to-side with uncanny balance. Kante stole a pass in the 15th minute, dancing away from two challenges before sliding a ball toward Özil in the pocket. Özil saw the run, chipped it into space—
Francesco was already moving.
He caught it on the bounce, touched it forward, but the angle narrowed too quickly. Eduardo charged. Francesco tried to dink it over him—but the Portugal keeper got a fingertip to it, just enough to deflect it wide of the far post.
The red corner of Arsenal fans let out a collective groan, rising to their feet.
Francesco exhaled and jogged back. No frustration. Just recalibration. He glanced toward Wenger, who offered a small nod. "Keep making the runs," the look said.
Dinamo responded with fire of their own.
Suddenly, Machado sent a long diagonal ball to Pjaca galloping down the left. He beat Debuchy for pace, drove to the byline, and whipped a low ball across the face of goal. Soudani lunged—his studs grazed the ball—but Ospina, full stretch, managed to scoop it just ahead of the striker's boot. Heart in mouth. That was close.
"Wake up!" Van Dijk shouted. "Tighter!"
Eighteen minutes.
Another Arsenal attack. Alexis dropped deep, dragging his marker with him, then flicked a gorgeous outside-foot pass up to Francesco. He controlled it on his chest, turned on a dime, and ripped a shot toward the near post from just outside the area.
Eduardo dived again. That was his fourth save already.
The energy in the Maksimir was riotous now—din and noise and rising tension. Fans pounded drums, clapped in tempo, shouted songs that pulsed like waves. Croatian and English voices clashed in volume and rhythm. On the sidelines, Wenger stood unmoved, arms crossed, eyes narrow.
The 20th minute came and went.
Still 0–0. Eight saves between two keepers who had already earned their pay.
Francesco's shirt clung to his back now, soaked at the shoulder blades. He wiped his brow and glanced around the pitch. Every player was gasping, drawing deep, deliberate breaths. No one had eased in. This wasn't a game being warmed into—this was a sprint from the start.
He turned to Özil.
"They're overcommitting," he said between breaths. "One more switch and we'll catch them."
Mesut nodded, pushing his damp fringe back.
And he was right.
Because in the 22nd minute, that moment nearly came.
Arteta intercepted a hurried pass from Ademi and fired it diagonally across to Kante. Kante took a sharp touch forward, then rolled it to Özil, who spun on the spot and sent it wide to Ox.
Ox beat Pivaric. Francesco peeled off the shoulder. The cross came low and fast.
And for a second—just a second—it looked like it would be the breakthrough.
Francesco slid, toe outstretched—
But Eduardo, damn him, guessed right again. He dived low, body horizontal, and clawed the ball from the edge of Francesco's boot.
Another save.
Francesco sat up, breathing hard, staring at the turf.
"Almost," Ox said, offering a hand.
He took it, pulled himself up.
"Next one," Francesco said, not smiling, not frowning—just locked in.
The match slowed briefly after that, like both sides had drawn too much from the fire too early. There were a few fouls—Koscielny brought down Pjaca near midfield; Arteta caught yellow for tugging back Machado after a loose touch. But the rhythm didn't break. If anything, it sharpened the edge.
Debuchy won a header at the far post. Özil fed Alexis inside the box, but the Chilean was muscled off the ball. At the other end, Van Dijk blocked a shot with his chest that had Ospina stranded.
Then, in the 24th minute, the Maksimir roared.
It started innocuously—an intercepted pass near the center circle. Arteta, usually so clean, misjudged a lateral ball under pressure from Machado. The Portugal midfielder pounced and immediately drove forward, threading a pass through the half-space between Koscielny and Gibbs. Arsenal's line hesitated for a second—just a second—but that's all it took.
Pjaca ran onto it like a sprinter breaking off the blocks, cutting inside as Gibbs scrambled to recover. Van Dijk stepped up to close the angle, trying to force him wide, but Pjaca was composed. He didn't try anything fancy. He laid it off, square, to the onrushing Josip Pivarić.
Pivarić, a full-back by trade, had ghosted in unchecked.
The ball came to him on his left foot, about twenty-two yards out. He didn't hesitate. He took a touch—just one—to steady it, then struck.
Clean, rising, angled toward goal.
It might've been straight at Ospina.
But it took a wicked deflection. Koscielny had lunged to block, his right thigh catching the ball at full stretch. The contact wasn't solid enough to stop it, but just enough to alter the path—enough to send it veering cruelly in the opposite direction, wrong-footing Ospina, who had already committed to his dive.
Time slowed.
Ospina twisted mid-air, arms outstretched like a man trying to catch a falling glass—but it was too late.
The ball spun past him and kissed the back of the net.
1–0.
The Maksimir exploded.
Blue flags waved like crashing waves, fists punched the air, and chants erupted in a thunderous chant of "DINAMO! DINAMO!" The home crowd had smelled blood earlier. Now they had it. And they were insatiable.
Pivarić sprinted to the corner flag, arms out wide, disbelief and euphoria etched into his face. He slid on his knees, his teammates swarming him as the stadium bounced with delight.
Back near the center circle, Francesco stood with hands on hips, watching the replay on the big screen above the stands. He exhaled hard through his nose. Koscielny shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Ospina got up slowly, brushing his gloves together, already resetting.
It wasn't anyone's fault. Just a cruel bounce.
But it stung all the same.
Wenger, on the touchline, clapped his hands sharply. "Heads up!" he barked. "Plenty of time!"
And there was.
Francesco jogged over to Özil and Alexis. "Same intensity," he said, his voice tight. "We'll get it back."
Alexis nodded, already bouncing on his heels, jaw clenched. Özil wiped his face with his shirt and muttered something in German before giving a small thumbs-up.
The restart came quickly, and Arsenal wasted no time reclaiming possession. They moved the ball with urgency, but there was an edge now—a bit of frustration behind each touch, each pass. It wasn't panic, but it was close.
Ox tried to burst past Antolić down the right but was hauled down cynically. Free-kick. Özil floated it in, but Dinamo cleared. Alexis tried to volley the rebound from thirty yards—it flew into the second tier.
Frustration grew in the stands behind the Arsenal bench. The away supporters were loud, trying to rally the team, but their voices were briefly swallowed by the euphoria of the home end.
By the half-hour mark, Arsenal were regaining composure. Arteta tightened up his passing. Kante prowled like a panther, intercepting two quick passes and releasing Özil, who slipped a ball inside for Francesco—but once again, Eduardo charged out and smothered.
Francesco pounded the turf with a clenched fist before pushing himself up.
"How many saves is that now?" he muttered as he jogged back.
"Six or seven," Kante replied grimly as he passed.
Still, the belief didn't fade. Arsenal pressed higher. Debuchy overlapped Ox again and sent in a teasing cross. This time, Francesco met it with a powerful header—but again, Eduardo, perfectly positioned, parried it wide.
"Come on!" Alexis shouted again, trying to lift spirits. "We're killing them. Keep going!"
The 33rd minute. Another attack.
Özil dropped into the left channel and danced through two midfielders before drawing a foul. He got up slowly, his expression unreadable, and stood over the ball with Alexis.
They exchanged a glance.
Then Alexis ran over it, Özil clipped it to the far post—
Francesco ghosted in, towering above Sigali.
He connected with his forehead, the timing perfect.
It flew toward the top corner—
—but kissed the crossbar and flew over.
He stood there for a second, arms half-raised in disbelief.
Wenger turned away, muttering to Bould.
The groans were now audible across the away end.
"Unlucky!" someone shouted.
"Hit the damn target!" someone else barked.
But Francesco didn't flinch. He just turned, jogged back, and nodded toward Özil.
"That's the ball," he said. "Next time, lower."
Özil gave a thin smile. "I'll get it right."
And then came Dinamo again—because the game never stopped.
Machado, Pjaca, and Soudani combined on a break that forced a last-ditch sliding block from Van Dijk inside the Arsenal box. The Croatian side was playing without fear. They weren't sitting on the lead—they were looking for a second.
Ospina barked orders now. "Organize! Look alive!"
By the 37th minute, the pace was surreal again.
Francesco dropped deep, linked with Arteta, spun and turned, then released Ox down the flank. The cross came again. Alexis dummied—Francesco flicked it with his heel.
Özil was through!
But the angle was tight.
He shot low.
Eduardo got a leg to it.
Again.
The 39th. Another half-chance, this time from Gibbs cutting in and rifling one from the edge of the box—over. Then Arteta tried one from range—blocked.
Every attack now felt like a wave pounding a seawall. The only question was whether the wall would crack.
Then, finally, in the 43rd minute—relief.
It had been coming. You could feel it building in the rhythm of Arsenal's passing, in the persistent darts from Alexis, in the sharp bite of Kante's interceptions, and in the sheer gravitational pull of Francesco's movement. Dinamo were holding, but only just. And this time, the resistance cracked.
It started with Van Dijk again—calm under pressure as Dinamo lobbed another hopeful ball into Arsenal's half. With no fuss, he chested it down, waited half a beat, then nudged it calmly to Arteta. Arsenal's captain scanned, turned into space, and spotted the opening immediately. Francesco had peeled off his marker again, drifting into the inside-left channel, between the lines.
Arteta didn't hesitate.
He zipped it low—through the legs of a pressing midfielder—right into Francesco's stride.
Francesco didn't take a touch.
He didn't need to.
He let the ball roll across his body as he opened up his stance, angling himself perfectly. Time seemed to slow. Sigali lunged, too late. Eduardo braced, hands half-raised.
Francesco struck it first time with his right.
Low. Clean. Across the keeper.
And for once—finally—Eduardo couldn't reach it.
The ball zipped past his fingertips, kissed the inside of the far post, and rippled the net.
1–1.
The away end erupted—relief and elation rolled into one wave of noise. Red shirts flew into the air. Fists pumped. Flares popped, smoke drifting faintly into the humid Croatian night.
Francesco turned toward the bench, expression fierce but uncelebratory. He jogged over to Arteta first and clapped his hand against the Spaniard's chest in thanks. "Perfect ball," he said, breath tight.
Arteta gave a small nod, smiling through the sweat. "Finish was better."
Alexis came charging in, slapping his back. Özil caught up a moment later and tapped foreheads briefly with Francesco, a brief grin flashing before they turned to reset.
Wenger didn't smile, but his arms uncrossed. A slight tilt of the head. The kind of approval only those closest to him knew meant satisfaction.
And just like that, the tension shifted.
Dinamo's players looked at one another, slightly dazed, as if the punch had landed harder than expected. They'd fought ferociously to take the lead, poured every drop into defending it—and now it was gone. Wiped away with clinical precision.
The restart came, but the sting lingered.
Pjaca tried to spark another charge, dancing past Debuchy near the halfway line, but Kante was there again—snapping at heels, robbing the ball cleanly before flicking it wide to Ox. Arsenal didn't over-commit. They didn't need to.
They'd earned their equalizer.
The fourth official signaled one minute added on.
Just enough time for one last press, one last drive. But neither side broke through again.
And then, with the ball in midfield and both teams finally catching their breath, the referee lifted the whistle to his lips and blew.
Halftime.
1–1.
The roar of Maksimir tapered into a hum as the players walked off—Arsenal heads high, sweat-drenched but proud; Dinamo shoulders sagging slightly, having seen their hard-earned lead erased just before the break.
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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: 8
Goal: 13
Assist: 1
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