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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And beneath the pale winter sun of New Year's Day, surrounded by laughter, football, and the people he loved most, the first chapter of 2018 couldn't have started any better.
The days following New Year's Day slipped by much the same way the final days of December had.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Busy in the best possible way.
Family remained at the mansion for another couple of days.
The Christmas decorations stayed up.
The laughter continued.
And despite the fact that football was always waiting just around the corner, Francesco made a conscious effort to enjoy every moment before normal life resumed.
Because experience had taught him something important.
The football season never slowed down.
Not really.
There was always another match.
Another training session.
Another challenge.
Another headline.
Family time, however?
That was different.
Those moments had to be appreciated when they arrived.
So he did exactly that.
There were more breakfasts together.
More backyard football matches.
More evenings spent around the fireplace.
More arguments over board games.
More stories.
More laughter.
More memories.
Jacob somehow managed to lose several more matches on the PlayStation.
A fact nobody allowed him to forget.
Mike and David continued their endless football debates.
Leah and Amanda spent entire afternoons discussing plans for the year ahead.
Sarah somehow ensured nobody ever went hungry.
An impossible task considering the people involved.
Yet she managed it anyway.
The mansion remained alive.
Full.
Happy.
And before anyone truly realized it, those quiet holiday days began giving way to reality.
Football.
Training resumed.
The Arsenal squad returned to London Colney.
The festive atmosphere slowly disappeared beneath tactical meetings, recovery sessions, gym work, video analysis, and preparation.
Because another massive match awaited.
Chelsea.
At the Emirates.
One of the biggest fixtures in English football.
One of the biggest fixtures of the season.
And the closer matchday came, the more the excitement grew.
Supporters discussed the game everywhere.
Television analysts debated tactics.
Pundits argued over predictions.
Social media exploded with opinions.
Chelsea remained one of Arsenal's biggest rivals.
A dangerous team.
A talented team.
A team capable of beating anyone.
Which meant Arsenal needed to be at their best.
Fortunately, confidence inside the dressing room remained high.
The victories against Crystal Palace and West Brom had maintained momentum.
The squad looked sharp.
Focused.
Hungry.
And most importantly?
United.
By the time matchday arrived, the Emirates Stadium was already buzzing hours before kickoff.
Thousands of supporters flooded toward the stadium.
Red and white scarves appeared everywhere.
Songs echoed through the surrounding streets.
Food vendors did brisk business.
Children carried Arsenal flags almost as large as themselves.
The excitement felt tangible.
Electric.
The kind of atmosphere that reminded everyone why they loved football.
Inside the stadium, the noise steadily increased.
The stands filled.
The floodlights illuminated the pitch.
The grass looked immaculate.
Perfect.
Waiting.
Everything was waiting.
The supporters.
The players.
The managers.
The entire stadium.
Waiting for ninety minutes that could influence the title race.
Inside Arsenal's dressing room, the atmosphere was focused.
Calm.
Professional.
Nobody needed motivational speeches.
Not today.
These were the matches players dreamed about.
The matches that motivated themselves.
Francesco sat quietly in front of his locker.
Captain's armband beside him.
Boots laced.
Mind clear.
Around him teammates prepared in their own ways.
Özil sat calmly reviewing tactical notes.
Walker stretched while talking far too much.
Van Dijk looked completely relaxed.
Robertson bounced energy into every corner of the room.
Sánchez looked hungry.
Very hungry.
The kind of expression defenders hated seeing.
Eventually Arsène Wenger entered.
The room immediately quieted.
The Frenchman stood in front of his players.
His team.
The reigning champions.
A small smile appeared.
Not because he was relaxed.
Because he trusted them.
"Enjoy it."
Simple.
Direct.
Classic Wenger.
The players listened.
"These are the matches you work for."
His eyes moved around the room.
"Play our football."
"Trust yourselves."
"Trust each other."
That was all.
No dramatic shouting.
No emotional speech.
Just belief.
Pure belief.
And somehow that always carried more weight.
A few minutes later the players rose together.
The tunnel awaited.
The noise hit immediately.
Chelsea supporters.
Arsenal supporters.
Thousands upon thousands of voices merging into one deafening wall of sound.
The energy seemed to vibrate through the concrete itself.
Francesco adjusted the captain's armband around his sleeve.
A familiar gesture.
Then led Arsenal out.
The roar that greeted them was enormous.
The Emirates exploded with noise.
Flags waved throughout the stands.
Supporters sang.
Scarves lifted into the air.
The atmosphere felt incredible.
Chelsea emerged moments later.
Focused.
Determined.
Ready.
This was no ordinary league fixture.
Everyone knew it.
The players lined up.
Handshakes followed.
Final preparations.
Final instructions.
And then everyone moved into position.
The opening whistle sounded.
Immediately the intensity was obvious.
Neither side wanted to give anything away.
Chelsea pressed aggressively.
Arsenal responded with confidence.
Possession shifted back and forth.
Tackles flew in.
Midfield battles developed everywhere.
The game felt fast.
Sharp.
Competitive.
Exactly what everyone expected.
For twenty minutes the two sides traded blows without finding a breakthrough.
Chelsea looked dangerous through quick transitions.
Arsenal looked dangerous whenever Özil found space.
The German playmaker seemed to glide between Chelsea's lines.
Always searching.
Always creating.
Always thinking one step ahead.
Then, in the twenty-first minute, everything changed.
It began with a turnover near midfield.
Van Dijk stepped forward aggressively.
Won possession cleanly.
Immediately found Ramsey.
Ramsey turned.
One touch.
Then another.
Before slipping the ball toward Özil.
The moment the German received possession, the stadium collectively leaned forward.
Supporters knew.
Everyone knew.
When Mesut Özil had time and space, something usually happened.
The playmaker lifted his head.
Just once.
That was all he needed.
Francesco saw the opening simultaneously.
A run between defenders.
Perfect timing.
Not too early.
Not too late.
Exactly right.
Özil delivered the pass.
Beautiful.
Weighted perfectly.
Threaded between two Chelsea defenders.
The kind of pass only a handful of players in the world could produce.
Francesco burst through.
Suddenly clear.
The Emirates rose to its feet.
The goalkeeper rushed forward.
The angle narrowed.
The moment lasted barely a second.
Yet somehow it felt longer.
Francesco remained calm.
One touch.
Then a composed finish beyond the goalkeeper.
The ball rolled into the corner of the net.
Goal.
The stadium exploded.
Absolutely exploded.
Sixty thousand Arsenal supporters erupted simultaneously.
The noise was deafening.
Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag.
Pure instinct.
Pure joy.
Teammates immediately chased after him.
Özil arrived first.
Naturally.
The assist belonged to him.
The German simply smiled as Francesco wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
A celebration born from understanding.
Two players who knew exactly what the other was thinking.
Walker arrived seconds later screaming something nobody understood.
Robertson nearly tackled everyone.
Van Dijk laughed.
The crowd sang.
The Emirates shook.
Arsenal 1.
Chelsea 0.
The perfect start.
The atmosphere became even louder after the goal.
Supporters sensed opportunity.
Chelsea, however, responded exactly like a top team should.
They didn't panic.
Didn't lose shape.
Didn't lose confidence.
Instead they became more dangerous.
More aggressive.
More determined.
And gradually the visitors began finding spaces.
Hazard, in particular, started seeing more of the ball.
Which was never good news.
The Belgian possessed the rare ability to change matches completely on his own.
For a while Arsenal managed him well.
Walker and Mustafi worked tirelessly.
The midfield tracked runners.
The defensive shape remained compact.
Yet sometimes great players simply produced great moments.
And in the thirty-fifth minute, Hazard produced one.
The move appeared harmless initially.
Chelsea regained possession near midfield.
The ball found Hazard.
Forty yards from goal.
No immediate danger.
Or so it seemed.
The Belgian turned.
Accelerated.
One Arsenal player beaten.
Then another.
The crowd became nervous.
Hazard continued.
Gliding across the pitch.
The ball seemingly attached to his feet.
Walker lunged.
Missed.
Mustafi stepped forward.
Hazard danced past him too.
Now the stadium was silent.
Watching.
Waiting.
The Belgian entered the penalty area.
One final touch.
Then a brilliant finish into the far corner.
Goal.
For a brief moment there was complete silence.
The kind of silence created by pure quality.
Even Arsenal supporters knew they had witnessed something special.
Then the Chelsea fans erupted.
Hazard sprinted away celebrating.
His teammates followed.
A magnificent solo goal.
The scoreline level.
1-1.
Francesco stood near the center circle watching the replay on the stadium screen.
There wasn't much anyone could have done.
Sometimes football was that simple.
Sometimes a world-class player produced a world-class moment.
The important thing was responding correctly.
And Arsenal did.
The remainder of the first half became a fascinating battle.
Neither side wanted to concede.
Neither side stopped attacking.
Chances appeared at both ends.
Sánchez forced an excellent save.
Hazard remained dangerous.
Özil continued pulling strings.
Chelsea's midfield battled fiercely.
Arsenal's back line stood firm.
The pace never dropped.
The intensity never disappeared.
Every tackle mattered.
Every pass mattered.
Every duel mattered.
The Emirates remained completely invested.
Every successful challenge received applause.
Every attack generated excitement.
Every mistake produced groans.
Football at the highest level.
Two elite teams refusing to give an inch.
Yet despite the quality on display, neither side could find another breakthrough.
The score remained unchanged.
One-one.
The referee eventually glanced at his watch.
Then raised the whistle.
Half-time.
The players immediately began walking toward the tunnel.
Some frustrated.
Some thoughtful.
Some exhausted.
The match felt perfectly balanced.
One moment of brilliance from Francesco.
One moment of brilliance from Hazard.
Everything else remained undecided.
Exactly the sort of match capable of turning on a single detail.
Inside Arsenal's dressing room, the atmosphere was focused.
Not negative.
Not frustrated.
Focused.
Players grabbed water bottles.
Staff moved around efficiently.
The noise of the stadium faded behind closed doors.
For a moment nobody spoke much.
Everyone replayed the first half in their minds.
The good moments.
The mistakes.
The opportunities.
The adjustments required.
Eventually Wenger stepped forward.
The room gradually quieted.
Every player looked toward him.
The manager stood calmly.
Hands resting lightly against the tactical board.
Studying his team.
Studying the match.
Thinking.
Then finally he spoke.
And every Arsenal player listened carefully.
"We are playing well."
Simple.
Direct.
The manager's eyes moved around the dressing room.
"We created chances."
"We controlled long periods."
"We scored an excellent goal."
Nobody disagreed.
The first half had contained plenty of positives.
But Wenger wasn't finished.
"However…"
That single word immediately commanded attention.
"Hazard punished us because we allowed him space to run."
The Frenchman pointed toward the tactical board.
"We cannot allow that again."
His marker moved across the diagram.
Showing positioning.
Showing movement.
Showing responsibility.
"The distances between us must remain compact."
"Our midfield must recover quickly."
"Our fullbacks must communicate."
Every instruction was clear.
Every adjustment precise.
Nobody interrupted.
Nobody needed clarification.
This was Wenger at his best.
Calm.
Analytical.
Understanding exactly what the match required.
Then his expression softened slightly.
"We can win this game."
The confidence in his voice immediately changed the atmosphere.
Not because it was surprising.
Because everyone believed it too.
Chelsea were dangerous.
But Arsenal were equally dangerous.
The match was there to be won.
"We continue attacking."
Wenger pointed toward Özil.
Then toward Francesco.
Then toward Sánchez.
"Keep moving them."
"Keep creating."
"The opportunities will come."
He looked around the room one final time.
Then nodded.
"Trust yourselves."
That was all.
No shouting.
No dramatic speech.
Just belief.
Pure belief.
And somehow that always carried more weight than anything else.
The players rose together.
Boots tightened.
Shirts adjusted.
Final drinks taken.
Then they headed back toward the tunnel.
The noise returned immediately.
The Emirates was louder than ever.
Sixty thousand supporters sensed the importance of the next forty-five minutes.
The floodlights illuminated the pitch brilliantly.
The winter air felt sharp.
Electric.
The atmosphere crackled with anticipation.
Francesco stepped onto the field and looked around.
Chelsea players were already returning to their positions.
Focused.
Determined.
Ready.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
As he jogged toward the center circle, he exchanged a glance with Özil.
No words.
None were necessary.
Both understood.
The second half belonged to whichever team seized it first.
The referee checked his watch.
Looked toward both assistants.
Then blew the whistle.
The second half began.
Immediately Arsenal looked different.
Not dramatically different.
Just sharper.
More aggressive.
More purposeful.
Exactly as Wenger had instructed.
The home side pushed higher up the pitch.
Pressed with greater intensity.
Moved the ball faster.
Every pass seemed played with intent.
Every run had purpose.
Chelsea felt the pressure immediately.
The Emirates responded too.
Every successful tackle generated roars.
Every forward movement increased the volume.
Supporters sensed momentum building.
And Arsenal fed off that energy.
Ramsey covered enormous ground.
Özil continued finding pockets of space.
Walker and Robertson pushed forward whenever opportunities appeared.
Van Dijk organized the back line with authority.
And Francesco remained constantly on the move.
Never standing still.
Never giving Chelsea's defenders a moment to relax.
The pressure continued building.
Minute after minute.
Chelsea defended well.
Very well.
But eventually pressure creates cracks.
And in the fifty-seventh minute, Arsenal found one.
The move started deep.
Van Dijk intercepted a forward pass near midfield.
The Dutch defender immediately played the ball into Cazorla's replacement area—Ramsey stepping into space.
Ramsey turned smoothly.
One touch.
Then another.
Before releasing possession toward Özil.
The German playmaker instantly accelerated the attack.
A quick pass found Francesco between the lines.
The moment he received possession, the stadium came alive.
Chelsea defenders immediately converged.
Expecting a shot.
Expecting a dribble.
Expecting something direct.
Instead Francesco did something else.
Something better.
He spotted a run nobody else had fully noticed yet.
Serge Gnabry.
Exploding into space down the right channel.
The timing was perfect.
Francesco delivered the pass immediately.
Weighted beautifully.
Rolling perfectly into Gnabry's path.
The young German never broke stride.
One touch carried him into the penalty area.
The crowd rose.
The goalkeeper rushed out.
The angle narrowed.
Yet Gnabry remained calm.
Remarkably calm.
He opened his body.
Then guided the ball beyond the goalkeeper with a composed finish.
The net rippled.
Goal.
The Emirates exploded.
Again.
Absolutely exploded.
A wall of sound crashed down from every corner of the stadium.
Gnabry sprinted away in celebration.
Pure joy written across his face.
The young winger spread his arms wide before teammates immediately swarmed him.
Francesco arrived first.
Wrapping him in a hug.
"Brilliant finish!"
Gnabry laughed.
"Brilliant pass!"
The rest of the team arrived moments later.
Walker screaming something incomprehensible once again.
Robertson nearly flattening three teammates.
Van Dijk smiling broadly.
The supporters sang louder than ever.
Arsenal 2.
Chelsea 1.
The lead was back.
And the Emirates believed.
Chelsea tried responding.
Of course they did.
Top teams always respond.
Conte's side immediately pushed forward searching for another equalizer.
Hazard remained dangerous.
Fabregas attempted to dictate possession.
Kanté covered seemingly every blade of grass.
The visitors still carried threat.
Yet Arsenal looked confident.
Controlled.
Mature.
Every player understood their role.
Every player trusted the system.
The match entered a fascinating phase.
Chelsea attacking.
Arsenal countering.
Both sides searching for the next decisive moment.
Minutes ticked away.
The tension grew.
Then came the sixty-eighth minute.
The fourth official raised his board.
The Emirates applauded immediately.
Arsenal substitutions.
Number ten.
Mesut Özil.
Number six.
Laurent Koscielny.
Number nine.
Francesco.
All leaving the field.
Coming on:
Olivier Giroud.
Santi Cazorla.
Shkodran Mustafi.
Fresh legs.
Fresh energy.
Fresh solutions.
Francesco jogged toward the touchline as the crowd rose to its feet.
The applause rolled around the stadium.
Warm.
Appreciative.
Respectful.
He acknowledged the supporters with a raised hand.
One goal.
One assist.
A captain's performance.
A strong afternoon's work.
As he reached the sideline, Wenger extended a hand.
"Excellent."
Francesco nodded.
"We finish it now."
Wenger smiled slightly.
"Exactly."
Meanwhile Chelsea made a change of their own.
Victor Moses departed.
Davide Zappacosta entered.
Conte clearly wanted fresh energy on the flank.
The battle continued.
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From the bench, Francesco watched intensely.
Being substituted never stopped him from feeling involved.
Not in matches like this.
Not against opponents like Chelsea.
Every pass still mattered.
Every challenge still mattered.
Every moment still mattered.
The Emirates remained fully engaged.
The tension never disappeared.
Chelsea pushed.
Arsenal resisted.
Counterattacks became increasingly dangerous.
The spaces grew larger.
The match stretched.
And eventually those spaces became fatal.
Seventy-nine minutes.
Arsenal attacked once more.
The move developed quickly.
Sánchez won possession brilliantly near midfield.
The Chilean immediately accelerated.
Driving forward with purpose.
Chelsea defenders retreated.
Trying to organize.
Trying to recover.
Sánchez continued advancing.
Then looked up.
Just once.
That was enough.
Giroud was arriving.
The French striker timed his run perfectly.
Sánchez delivered the pass.
Beautifully weighted.
Giroud met it first time.
A powerful finish.
Low.
Accurate.
Unstoppable.
Goal.
The Emirates erupted for the third time.
The noise was unbelievable.
Giroud sprinted toward the corner flag punching the air triumphantly.
His teammates chased after him.
Supporters celebrated wildly.
Scarves waved.
Flags bounced.
Songs echoed around the stadium.
Arsenal 3.
Chelsea 1.
The lead doubled.
Victory suddenly felt very close.
Very real.
Very tangible.
Conte reacted immediately.
Two minutes later another board appeared.
Eden Hazard departed.
Cesc Fàbregas departed.
Danny Drinkwater entered.
Willian entered.
Fresh legs.
Fresh energy.
One final attempt to change the match.
One final gamble.
But Arsenal sensed blood.
Not literally.
Footballingly.
The champions looked composed.
Professional.
Experienced.
The back line remained organized.
Mustafi slotted seamlessly alongside Van Dijk.
Ramsey continued running endlessly.
Cazorla controlled possession beautifully.
Giroud gave Chelsea defenders a completely different challenge.
Every minute that passed felt larger.
The Emirates sensed it too.
Supporters began singing louder.
Longer.
Confidently.
They could see the finish line.
The final ten minutes passed with Chelsea searching desperately for a breakthrough.
Yet Arsenal refused to offer one.
Every challenge was contested.
Every second ball fought for.
Every defensive action celebrated.
Van Dijk produced a magnificent interception.
Walker recovered brilliantly during one counterattack.
Robertson won an important duel near the touchline.
Collectively, Arsenal looked exactly like champions.
Disciplined.
Focused.
Committed.
The scoreboard never changed again.
3-1.
The clock continued moving.
Ninety minutes approached.
Then passed.
Added time arrived.
The Emirates rose as one.
Already applauding.
Already celebrating.
Still singing.
The referee glanced at his watch.
One final look.
Then the whistle sounded.
Full-time.
The stadium erupted.
Arsenal had done it.
Their first victory of 2018.
A deserved victory.
A convincing victory.
A statement victory.
Players immediately embraced one another.
Exhaustion mixed with satisfaction.
The kind of feeling only arrives after winning a massive match.
From the bench, Francesco rose immediately and joined his teammates.
Walker appeared first.
Naturally.
"You owe me."
"For what?"
"I distracted Chelsea by being handsome."
Francesco stared at him.
Robertson nearly collapsed laughing.
"That's the worst thing you've ever said."
"It's not even close," Walker replied confidently.
Unfortunately, everyone knew he was right.
Nearby, Wenger shook hands with Conte.
Professional.
Respectful.
The battle was over.
For today.
Meanwhile the supporters remained inside the stadium.
Still singing.
Still celebrating.
Still enjoying the moment.
Because victories against Chelsea always felt special.
Always.
The Arsenal players slowly made their way toward the stands.
Applauding the supporters.
Thanking them.
Sharing the moment together.
The bond between team and fans felt stronger than ever.
As Francesco stood before the Emirates crowd with the captain's armband still around his arm, he took a moment to absorb everything.
The noise.
The smiles.
The celebration.
The first win of a brand-new year.
A goal.
An assist.
Three points.
Another step forward in the title race.
Another reminder of what this team could achieve.
Around him teammates laughed and celebrated.
Above him thousands of supporters continued singing Arsenal songs into the cold London evening.
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Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 31
Goal: 38
Assist: 2
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9