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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.
Inside the away dressing room beneath Stadion Maksimir, the air was thick with sweat and purpose. The players moved with the weary but charged rhythm of a group who knew they were in a war, not just a game. Shirts stuck to backs. Boots scraped tile. Bottles hissed open.
Wenger was already at the whiteboard before most had taken their seats.
"We're dominating," he began, voice low but cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. "We're moving the ball well. We're forcing them deep. They cannot keep this pace."
He gestured to the board, where he had quickly sketched out their shape—clear lines, arrows, a dot circled twice. Francesco.
"They're defending in a five when they drop back, but look here—" He tapped the channel between their left-sided center-back and full-back. "That's where they're vulnerable. Özil, I want you to keep dragging their six out of position. That creates this pocket."
Özil nodded slowly, toweling off his face.
"Kanté, more of the same. Don't gamble. Hold, cover, and when we break—find Mesut or Mikel."
"Yes, boss," came the clipped reply.
Wenger turned then, looking to the front three—Francesco, Alexis, and Ox.
"You three are giving them nightmares. Keep stretching them. Francesco, your movement is excellent—but I want you sharper in the box now. You had one, you took it. Good. Now find another."
Francesco's jaw tightened as he gave a small nod.
"Ox, take more risk on the dribble. You've got their full-back rattled. Alexis—" he paused slightly, "—keep your edge, but don't force it. Trust the play to open. It will."
Alexis, crouched by his kit bag, just nodded once, fierce as ever.
Wenger stepped back and clapped his hands once. "We are the better side. You know it. They know it. Now show the world. Concentrate, and the result will follow."
Bould followed with a few murmured instructions to the back four, particularly Debuchy, who was being asked to hold his position a little more to prevent any fast breaks from Pjaca, whose speed had been a danger in transition.
Čech, standing quietly near the tunnel entrance though not playing tonight, gave a few words to Ospina—"Stay alert. They'll try to counter." The Colombian nodded.
And then it was time.
The hallway buzzed with noise—echoes of the crowd above, muffled footsteps of officials, the low hum of anticipation. Shirts pulled back over heads, boots tightened, gloves slapped. The tunnel was narrow, harshly lit.
Francesco stood near the front of the line, shoulders squared. He glanced at Alexis, then at Özil, then at Arteta behind them. The captain caught his eye and gave a nod. "We keep doing what we're doing," Arteta said. "They'll fold."
The referee led them out.
And the Maksimir roared to life again, a wall of blue sound cascading down from the stands. The night had grown cooler, the edge of the Croatian September creeping in. But the air on the pitch felt feverish.
Whistle.
And they were off again.
From the first touch of the second half, it was all Arsenal.
They zipped the ball across the surface with a new sharpness, like they'd taken a breath, recalibrated, and were now slicing with surgical rhythm. Özil dropped deep to orchestrate. Arteta kept the metronome ticking. Kanté swept up any loose ends like a vacuum.
In the 47th, Ox charged down the right, skipped past Pivarić and sent in a low cross. It was met by Francesco—but deflected just wide off Sigali.
Corner.
Özil to the flag. Delivery—perfect arc, dipping. Van Dijk rose but his header clattered off the shoulder of Sigali again and looped over.
Still, the pressure built.
Dinamo were penned in. Their shape compact, but stretched. Their midfielders retreating, their forwards stranded.
In the 51st minute, Arteta intercepted a poor clearance, fed it to Alexis, who danced past his marker and struck low from just inside the area—Eduardo, again, with a full-stretch parry. Rebound came to Ox, who volleyed wide.
Gasps from the away end.
In the 53rd, Özil released Francesco down the inside left. One touch. Two. Then he squared it across goal—but no one had gambled. The ball skidded untouched across the six-yard box.
Francesco slapped his thigh in frustration.
But still, the control was theirs.
In the 56th minute, it was Özil again—this time curling a delicious ball over the top. Francesco's run was timed to perfection. He chested it down, tried to shoot on the half-turn—but Antolić recovered just in time to hook it away.
Dinamo cleared.
But only barely.
And then, suddenly—one moment.
One lapse.
And the world turned.
The 58th minute.
Machado, one of Dinamo's few consistent outlets, picked up the ball just inside Arsenal's half. It looked harmless—Kanté was nearby. The angle was narrow. The options limited.
But Machado didn't need much.
He turned on a dime, bursting past Gibbs with a sharp acceleration and dragging Van Dijk with him. Koscielny stepped forward, unsure whether to engage.
That moment of hesitation opened the path.
And Machado, sharp as a knife, exploited it.
A deft ball threaded diagonally behind the defense—too fast for Koscielny to intercept, too accurate for Van Dijk to cover.
Junior Fernandes, who had ghosted behind Debuchy, was already at full tilt.
He latched onto the pass without breaking stride.
Ospina rushed out—arms wide, knees bent, trying to close the angle—
But Fernandes stayed calm.
One touch to steady.
One to finish.
He slotted it low, inside the near post.
The net rippled.
And once more, Maksimir exploded.
2–1.
The Arsenal players turned in disbelief, hands half-raised. Van Dijk slammed a fist into the turf as he picked himself up. Ospina thumped the ground once before rising.
Wenger stood motionless on the touchline, arms crossed again. His jaw clenched.
Debuchy threw up his hands toward the linesman, pleading for an offside. None came.
Gibbs exhaled, turned away.
Francesco stared at the halfway line, his shoulders rising and falling.
A goal against the run of play.
Another reminder: control didn't mean invulnerability.
Inside the stadium, the crowd turned ravenous again. Smoke from a blue flare drifted behind the goal, curling into the floodlights like a specter. Chants thundered anew. Drums pounded.
Dinamo had barely attacked all half.
But they led.
On the Arsenal bench, Bould muttered something under his breath. Wenger turned and gestured toward the fourth official—subs warming now. Walcott. Cazorla. Maybe Giroud.
But the restart was already in motion.
Francesco jogged into position, clapping his hands together. "We go again!" he shouted.
Alexis banged a fist into his palm. "Let's kill them now."
Özil, expression unreadable, went straight to retrieve the ball from the net, holding it under one arm as he walked back.
The match resumed with a vengeance, the pitch at Stadion Maksimir now a stage for a tense chess match played at a hundred miles an hour. Arsenal, stung by the sucker punch of Junior Fernandes' goal, responded not with panic but with grit—a tightened resolve manifesting in every tackle, every press, every pass straining to reassert their rhythm.
Dinamo, meanwhile, had smelled blood. No longer content to sit deep, they pressed higher, fought harder in the middle third, bringing the game into a gritty, bruising trench war of midfield battles. The ball ricocheted between legs and feet like a pinball, sometimes graceful, often chaotic. Kanté was a tireless terrier, snapping at Machado's heels, tracking back, lunging to intercept. Özil continued to find pockets, but the space was closing now. Every touch had a Dinamo shirt within arm's length.
The minutes ticked by, tension mounting.
In the 61st, a half-chance fell to Francesco. A slick give-and-go with Alexis carved open a narrow lane down the left side. He darted into it, touched it past Pivarić, and let fly with his left foot—but Eduardo, sharp and alert all night, tipped it wide with an outstretched hand. The away end groaned in unison.
Corner. Özil again.
This time, he whipped it in flat toward the front post—Giroud's domain, had he been on. But Giroud wasn't on yet. Van Dijk tried to flick it, but it was smothered.
Seconds later, the board went up.
Wenger had seen enough.
On the touchline, Steve Bould handed over instructions quickly, murmured into the ears of the incoming trio. Then the substitutions were made in a flurry: Arteta off, Oxlade-Chamberlain off, Alexis off. Coquelin, Walcott, and Giroud on.
Immediate reshuffle.
Francesco drifted left, adjusting his position with the instincts of a player who had done this before, even if his preferred spot was more central. Giroud slotted into the nine, broad and ready to bruise his way through a crowded box. Walcott offered directness on the right. Coquelin slotted into the base alongside Kanté, adding muscle and tenacity to reassert control.
Wenger clapped once, sharply. "Keep the tempo. They're tiring."
It was true—Dinamo had begun to show signs. Their clearances were rushed, their tackles slightly slower. The two full-backs, so energetic in the first half, now labored to keep up.
Arsenal adjusted quickly. With Giroud in the box, the wide play became more aggressive. Walcott, only minutes on, raced down the flank and won a corner. Francesco, now in front of the dugout side, was seeing more of the ball.
In the 66th, he danced past Machado, then Antolić, cutting inside onto his right foot, and let one fly from twenty yards. It curled just over the bar. A collective gasp, and some applause from the away fans in the far corner.
The tempo rose. With Coquelin and Kanté winning every second ball, Arsenal penned Dinamo back again.
In the 68th minute, Özil dropped deep and sprayed a diagonal ball wide to Francesco. The young winger controlled it expertly, nudged it past his marker, and floated a delicious cross into the box.
Giroud rose—a statue of muscle and timing—but his header lacked venom, and Eduardo caught it clean.
Still, the tide was turning. You could feel it in the way Dinamo retreated with each pass, how their midfielders began pointing at each other instead of marking.
Francesco was relentless.
He demanded the ball, every run sharper than the last. He tucked in, pulled wide, overlapped with Monreal, even dropped into midfield when needed. The freedom suited him. Giroud's presence allowed him to exploit the vacated half-spaces. Özil fed him again and again.
In the 71st minute, another chance. Walcott skipped past Pivarić on the right and fired a low cross through the six-yard box. Giroud got a toe on it, but it deflected up and looped toward the far post—
Francesco arrived late, unmarked, but couldn't get his body behind it. He lunged, got a touch—but only into the side netting.
He cursed softly, already jogging back into position. Özil gave him a thumbs up. "Next one."
Dinamo's players were visibly sagging now. Machado, still their most dangerous outlet, was caught offside twice in five minutes, each time straying too far ahead of the game.
Arsenal smelled blood.
Then, the moment came.
The 74th minute.
Kanté won the ball just inside Arsenal's half, a clean, economical challenge that sent Antolić spinning. He took one touch, then fed it left to Özil.
Özil turned, looked up—and saw Francesco on the move, again.
He didn't hesitate.
The pass was sublime—angled, curling, weighted perfectly behind the retreating full-back.
Francesco didn't break stride. He touched it once with his right foot, cutting inside into the box.
Sigali came to close, but it was too late.
Francesco chopped once, inside to his right—then fired low, hard, near post.
The net bulged.
GOAL.
2–2.
The away end erupted, red shirts spilling over the barriers with fists raised and voices screaming. On the pitch, Francesco wheeled away toward the corner flag, arms wide, face lit with fury and joy. Özil caught up to him first, embracing him from behind, followed by Giroud, Walcott, and Kanté.
The entire bench stood and applauded. Wenger's hands remained in his pockets, but he allowed a small, satisfied nod.
It was richly deserved. Arsenal had wrested back control. Now they wanted more.
The restart saw Dinamo attempt to play, briefly. A quick one-two by Machado and Rog tried to open space in the middle, but Coquelin was everywhere, snapping at feet, nicking passes. Van Dijk and Koscielny cleaned up the rest, calm and unbothered now.
And still Arsenal poured forward.
Walcott in the 77th minute, slicing in from the right, blazing a shot just over. Giroud in the 79th, muscling his way onto a cross from Monreal, heading over. Francesco, again in the 81st, jinking past two defenders and curling one that kissed the outside of the post.
The pressure was unbearable.
Eduardo was heroic, yelling instructions, making saves, organizing a back line that was fraying by the second. But the storm was building.
Then, on the 85th minute—finally, inevitably—Arsenal cracked them open.
It began with another suffocating spell of possession, the kind that broke not only legs but wills. The ball danced between red shirts and white lines, spun from Özil to Coquelin, out to Gibbs, then back to Koscielny. The passes weren't just fast—they were precise, purposeful, probing. Dinamo chased shadows now. Their legs were heavy, movements sluggish. One or two of them bent over at the waist after each sprint, lungs heaving.
Kanté took the ball from Coquelin near the halfway line and played it forward, sharp into Özil's feet. Özil turned and rolled it left, to Francesco, who had peeled away again into space near the touchline.
The crowd buzzed.
Francesco took the ball on the half-turn, glanced up—Pinto was caught flat, his footing uncertain, and the full-back behind him was sagging, late to close.
Francesco drove.
One touch, two touches, slicing through the outside of the defender like a hot knife through cloth. He didn't hesitate. He didn't need to. With the outside of his right boot, just before the challenge came in, he threaded a low, skidding ball across the box.
It was perfect.
Theo Walcott, who had ghosted between defenders like vapor, read it early. He darted in front of Pivaric at the near post and, with the simplest of finishes, redirected it with his instep past Eduardo—low, precise, and devastating.
GOAL.
3–2.
The Arsenal bench exploded. Wenger's hands finally left his coat pockets as he turned toward Bould and clenched a victorious fist. Bould, normally reserved, grinned wide and clapped his hands.
On the pitch, Walcott pointed at Francesco as he wheeled away toward the corner flag, arms spread. Francesco was mobbed by Özil and Coquelin before he could even get there, but he kept smiling, nodding, shouting encouragement.
Walcott, panting, reached him last. "That was filthy, mate," he beamed, slapping hands with the young winger. Francesco, ever humble, just grinned and pulled him into a hug.
In the away end, limbs were everywhere. Scarves flew into the air, chants roared louder than ever before. The traveling Gooners had braved the Zagreb night—and they were now basking in its reward.
Dinamo looked stunned.
All that early promise, all that energy—gone. They were spent. Drained. Their shoulders slumped, their heads shook with resignation. And they still had five minutes plus stoppage time to endure.
But Arsenal weren't done.
They didn't sit back. They didn't shut up shop.
They pushed.
Relentlessly.
The final moments of regulation time saw Arsenal control every touch, every pass. Coquelin and Kanté turned into twin sentinels, each sweeping the space behind Özil and Francesco like a no-nonsense janitor with a tactical broom. Every Dinamo attempt to push forward was snuffed out within seconds. Even when the ball reached the feet of Rog or Machado, it was more in hope than intent—they knew what was coming. A red swarm. A body in front. A clever tackle. Another turnover.
Then, into stoppage time.
The fourth official held up the board: +3.
Groans from the home crowd. Arsenal's fans, by contrast, cheered it like a goal.
And then… it was a goal.
The 91st minute.
It started from deep again—this time from van Dijk, who had grown more authoritative with every passing minute. He stepped forward to intercept a loose ball, calm as you like, and laid it off to Coquelin, who in turn found Kanté.
Kanté, tireless engine that he was, surged forward with the ball like it was still minute one, not ninety-one. He skipped past a tired challenge from Machado, then feinted to pass wide—but instead slipped it through the middle, perfectly weighted.
Giroud was already moving.
He didn't need to see. He knew.
The ball arrived in stride, and Giroud didn't break his run. One touch to bring it forward, second to open his body—and with his third, he lashed it past Eduardo.
GOAL.
4–2.
Pandemonium.
Olivier turned toward the away end, arms flexed, chest puffed out, letting out a guttural roar. His teammates charged after him, surrounding him, embracing him. Even Koscielny came jogging over from the back, his face lighting up in a rare wide grin. Wenger turned, clapped twice, then shook his head—equal parts admiration and relief.
Francesco sprinted to catch up, leaping onto Giroud's back for a moment before sliding off and wrapping an arm around Özil. "This," he shouted over the roar, "is how we do it!"
They were exultant. Exhausted. Triumphant.
Dinamo were broken. Their players stood in place as if cemented into the pitch. Eduardo bent over, hands on his knees, eyes closed. Sigali stared blankly into the distance.
The restart was a formality. The referee glanced at his watch and blew for full-time only seconds later.
Full-time: Dinamo Zagreb 2 – 4 Arsenal.
Arsenal's players, for a second, simply stood where they were. Some dropped to their knees. Others embraced. Francesco, hands on hips, gazed up at the Croatian night sky as if to let the cool air fill his lungs and calm the storm in his chest.
Then came the ovation.
The away end kept singing long after the whistle. The players made their way over as one, clapping, waving, handing shirts into the stands. Giroud gave his to a boy in the front row. Walcott passed his armband down to a steward to deliver. Francesco approached the touchline, grinning, and gave his to a young girl holding a handmade sign with his name on it.
Özil slung an arm around him. "Another brace, huh?"
Francesco chuckled. "Almost a hat-trick. But I'll take one assists."
"World-class, mate," Walcott added, walking past with a towel over his head.
In the tunnel, Wenger greeted each player with a pat on the back or a soft word. When Francesco came through, he stopped him briefly. "Well played," he said, his voice calm but proud. "Not just the goals. Your movement. Your composure. Très bon."
Francesco nodded. "Thank you, boss."
Wenger allowed himself a smile. "Go enjoy it. You earned it."
In the dressing room, the mood was electric.
The energy of the comeback carried into every corner—laughter, music, the buzz of adrenaline. Ice packs clung to sore legs, but no one complained. Giroud did his usual mock-heroic strut around the room, grinning, exaggerating his celebration pose. Walcott and Ox mimicked his goal, using a towel as a football. Kanté sat quietly in his corner, sipping water, smiling to himself, sweat still dripping down his brow. Özil reclined on the bench, boots off, smiling as he scrolled through match stats on his phone.
Francesco peeled off his soaked kit and slumped into his seat with a heavy sigh. Santi Cazorla tossed him a bottle of water and grinned.
"You know," Santi said, "you're making this look too easy."
Francesco just laughed. "It doesn't feel easy."
Santi chuckled. "It never does. That's how you know you're doing it right."
As the media team entered to gather quotes and grab post-match photos, Wenger gave his final talk—not loud, not dramatic, just firm, proud, and sharp.
"You showed what it means to respond with maturity. Down twice. You didn't panic. You fought back. This is the Champions League. This is how we play. Now, rest. We go again Sunday."
As they left the stadium, a group of local fans had gathered outside the team bus. Many clapped politely. Some chanted. Francesco waved, flashing that grin of his, and the cheers grew louder.
The cameras caught him mid-wave, sweat-streaked, smiling, the man of the match not for a fluke goal or a lucky assist—but for a performance born of grit, vision, and unrelenting drive.
Arsenal's Champions League campaign had begun with a test—and they had passed it, not with ease, but with fire.
And for Francesco, still only seventeen, it was another night that etched his name deeper into Arsenal folklore.
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.
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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: 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