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"No promises," he said, but the warmth in his voice made it clear the night had ended exactly how he liked it — surrounded by family, laughter, and just the right amount of football-fueled fire
After Leah's little warning about not starting a "civil war," the two of them eventually drifted into quiet conversation, the kind that didn't need to go anywhere. Francesco sat there with his arm loosely draped over her shoulders, listening to the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional passing car outside. They didn't stay up much longer — Madrid was still a few days away, but West Ham was tomorrow, and he needed the kind of rest that no amount of coffee could fake.
By the ti he finally lay down in bed that night, the warmth of Leah pressed against his side, the last thing he rembered thinking before sleep took him was how much he loved evenings like this — football talk, family teasing, and just enough edge to keep things interesting.
Then the day pass to 9 April 2016 and the morning ca faster than he expected. A quick breakfast at the training ground, a team eting to go over West Ham's recent form, and then it was straight onto the coach. The away trip to the London Stadium wasn't exactly long — especially compared to so of the hauls they had earlier in the season — but matchday travel always had its own energy.
Francesco settled into his usual spot halfway down the aisle, earphones in, hood up, the soft thrum of the engine beneath his feet. The playlist he'd queued was a mix of Italian rap, so deep house, and one or two guilty pleasures he'd never admit to his teammates.
Outside the tinted window, the streets blurred past — familiar patches of East London that grew more and more recognisable as they drew closer to Stratford. The bus ride wasn't particularly loud; a few guys played cards at the back, others dozed, and so scrolled endlessly on their phones. The occasional burst of laughter would ripple down the aisle when soone showed a funny video, but mostly, it was the quiet before the storm.
Francesco leaned his head against the glass, watching the urban scenery shift to the modern edges of the Olympic Park. That's when he realised — they were nearly there. The stadium's curved, lattice-like exterior peeked between buildings, growing larger with each turn of the road.
The bus eased through the security gates, greeted by the sight of a few clusters of early-arriving West Ham fans who cheered — or jeered — as the coach rolled past. It was all part of the atmosphere. A couple of kids in claret and blue scarves waved enthusiastically despite their dads giving Francesco's side of the bus a good-natured thumbs-down. He smiled faintly, giving them a discreet nod through the glass.
When the bus finally ca to a stop in the underground entrance, the players began their familiar routine. Bags slung over shoulders, jackets zipped up against the still-crisp April air, they filed off in pairs and small groups, heading for the tunnel entrance. The concrete echoed with the clatter of studs in carry cases and the low murmur of matchday voices.
Inside, the dressing room had already been prepped. Their shirts were neatly hung, boots lined up beneath each stall, training tops folded in perfect stacks. The air carried that faint sll of fresh laundry mixed with the sharp tang of linint.
Francesco walked over to his spot, ran his hand briefly over the back of his match shirt, then started peeling off his travel gear. In a few minutes, he was into the training kit — light top, shorts, socks pulled just above the calf — and lacing up his warm-up boots.
The squad moved together down the tunnel, the daylight spilling in from the far end. Stepping out onto the pitch always had a certain weight to it — even for a warm-up — but here, at the London Stadium, it was magnified by the sheer size of the place.
The seats were still mostly empty, but the lower tiers had pockets of fans watching them jog out. The sound of early chants drifted in, bouncing lightly around the open bowl of the arena.
They began with light jogging, weaving between cones, loosening their legs from the bus ride. A few short sprints followed, then rondos in small groups. Francesco's touch was crisp; his mind was already shifting into that matchday gear where every movent felt like a rehearsal for sothing bigger.
The pitch was in good condition — firm, but with just enough give to make quick changes of direction comfortable. The air was cool but not biting, the kind of weather that made ninety minutes feel just a little easier on the lungs.
As they wrapped up the warm-up, the West Ham players had erged from their own tunnel entrance. A couple of familiar faces gave quick nods across the pitch, but there was no mingling — this was business.
They jogged off the pitch in twos and threes, the last few stretches shaking out of their legs before they hit the tunnel again. The noise outside was already building, the hum of anticipation turning into a proper matchday buzz. Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere shifted — that warm-up looseness replaced by a sharper, more focused energy.
Francesco peeled off his training top, a thin sheen of sweat cooling quickly in the stadium air. He toweled down, pulled on the fresh match shirt hanging in his spot — the fabric crisp and slling faintly of detergent. The red felt different today, heavier almost, though he knew that was just the weight of the ga settling in his head.
Wenger stood at the front, arms loosely crossed, his voice carrying over the low rustle of players changing. He didn't need to shout — the room had that natural hush that cos when the final monts before a match arrive.
"Alright," Wenger began, his tone calm but with that unmistakable undercurrent of steel, "we go with four-two-three-one." He gestured subtly toward the whiteboard, where the magnets were already in place. "Ospina in goal."
Francesco glanced toward David Ospina, who gave a quick nod while pulling on his gloves.
"Back four," Wenger continued, moving his hand from left to right, "Nacho, Gabriel, Per, Hector."
Monreal, sitting with his laces halfway done, leaned back slightly, giving a short nod toward Gabriel. rtesacker, towering even while seated, just adjusted his socks, that stoic calm etched on his face. Bellerín, ever the bundle of energy, tapped his boots together in readiness.
"In the middle, Elneny and Coquelin." Wenger's eyes shifted to the two of them, who shared a quick look of mutual readiness — the sort of understanding midfield partners built over countless training sessions.
"sut ahead of them," Wenger said, tapping the magnet. Özil was already rolling his shoulders like he could feel the ball at his feet.
"Left, Alex. Right, Francesco." Wenger gave him the briefest of glances, just enough to say I'm trusting you here.
"And Danny up top."
Welbeck grinned faintly, that mix of relaxed confidence and competitive fire.
The substitutes were rattled off next: "Petr, Virgil, Laurent, Kieran, N'Golo, Theo, Olivier."
Francesco knew the bench was stacked — the kind of depth that could change a ga late if needed.
Wenger let the formation hang in the air for a mont before speaking again, his voice tightening. "This is not just about points today. This is about showing we can control a match away from ho — against a side that will fight for every ball, every inch. We impose ourselves. We play our ga. And we finish our chances."
The last bit hung in the air. Everyone in the room knew they'd been guilty of not killing gas off earlier in the season.
With that, the talking stopped. Shinguards slid into place, boots were double-knotted, final sips from water bottles taken. The kit man moved through with spare tape and laces, just in case.
When the call ca from the official in the tunnel, they filed out — a tight line, shoulders brushing. The tunnel was narrow, lit with that flat, unforgiving fluorescent light. West Ham were already there, claret shirts stark against the white walls. A few exchanged nods or stares, nothing too friendly.
Francesco's eyes stayed forward. He could feel the bass thud of the stadium announcer's voice through the soles of his boots. The sound of the crowd swelled as they stepped into the mouth of the tunnel, sunlight spilling across the pitch.
The handshake line was quick, then the coin toss. Arsenal would be kicking toward the far stand first.
And then — the whistle.
The first fifteen minutes were a blur of back-and-forth intensity. Both sides went for it early, not sitting back, and the result was a stretch of football where neither goalkeeper had ti to breathe.
On Arsenal's end, Ospina had to dive low to his left twice in the opening five minutes — once to push away a driven shot from Payet, another to smother a deflected header that seed destined for the bottom corner.
At the other end, Adrian was just as busy. Francesco had nearly caught him out with a curling effort from the right edge of the box, forcing the West Ham keeper into a fingertip save. Minutes later, Welbeck slipped through and saw his shot parried, the rebound falling to Özil, whose follow-up was blocked by a desperate sliding tackle.
By the quarter-hour mark, Ospina had three saves, Adrian had three, and the match felt like it was teetering on the edge of sothing.
It ca in the eighteenth minute.
The move started deep in midfield. Elneny, calm under pressure, slid the ball to Coquelin, who spotted Iwobi peeling into space on the left. Iwobi took one touch to control, then, without breaking stride, clipped a perfectly weighted ball across the top of the box.
Özil tid his run to perfection — ghosting in between the West Ham centre-backs. The ball bounced once, and with his second touch, sut guided it low past Adrian into the far corner.
The away end erupted, a flash of red shirts against the backdrop of claret. Özil wheeled away toward the touchline, arms outstretched, face split into a grin that was all composure and quiet satisfaction.
Francesco was one of the first to reach him, clapping him on the back. "Class, sut. Absolute class."
The scoreboard read: West Ham 0–1 Arsenal.
The ga kicked back into rhythm after Özil's opener, but West Ham weren't sulking. They pressed higher, tried to work the flanks, and tested Arsenal's shape more than once.
Francesco tracked back deep on the right, helping Bellerín cut off a couple of overlapping runs from Cresswell. Every ti West Ham pushed numbers forward, you could feel the air thicken — not from panic, but from the knowledge that one bad touch could turn into sothing dangerous.
On the other side, Iwobi was having a storr. He looked like he was playing in the park with friends — the confidence, the looseness, the way he'd just glide past his man and keep the ball glued to his foot.
Then ca the thirty-fifth minute.
It started with Elneny snapping into a tackle in midfield, nicking the ball before West Ham could launch another cross toward Carroll. He passed quickly to Özil, who spotted Iwobi hugging the left touchline in acres of space.
Francesco was already on the move before Iwobi even took his first touch. Years of instinct, countless training ground drills — he knew where the space was going to open.
Iwobi didn't need to look twice. He shaped like he was going to cut inside and shoot, dragging his marker with him, then with that easy fluidity, rolled the ball into Francesco's path on the right edge of the box.
One touch to set it, another to open his body, and then — snap. The shot left his boot with a clean, rising whip, arcing past Adrian's outstretched arm and nestling into the top far corner.
He didn't roar. Instead, he just turned sharply, arms wide, that grin breaking across his face like sunlight after rain. Iwobi sprinted over, wrapping an arm around his neck, and the rest of the lads piled in.
"Perfect ball, Alex!" Francesco shouted over the noise, his chest still heaving.
The away section was chaos — limbs everywhere, flags shaking. On the scoreboard: West Ham 0–2 Arsenal.
It should have been the perfect position to cruise into halfti.
But West Ham had other ideas.
The forty-fourth minute was one of those monts that makes a manager tear his hair out. Cresswell found space down the left, whipped in a teasing cross, and Carroll — all six-foot-four of him — climbed over Gabriel and smashed a header past Ospina from close range.
2–1.
The ho fans roared back to life, and suddenly the place had a different sound to it.
Worse still, Arsenal never quite recovered their shape in the final minutes before the break. West Ham slled blood.
Two minutes into stoppage ti, they struck again — and it was almost a carbon copy. This ti the ball ca in quicker, a driven delivery from the left that ricocheted off a defender and hung awkwardly in the air. Carroll, sohow free again, rose above everyone and powered it ho for his brace.
2–2.
Francesco froze for a mont, hands on hips, staring at the net. Around him, you could feel the disbelief ripple through the team — how had a two-goal cushion vanished in the space of three minutes?
The whistle blew almost imdiately after kickoff, and the Arsenal players trudged toward the tunnel. The noise from the stands was deafening; West Ham fans were in full voice, and the ho team jogged off looking like they'd just been handed a second life.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was… not tense exactly, but sharp. The kind of silence where you can almost hear everyone replaying the last few minutes in their heads. Boots scraped lightly on the floor, bottles were opened, shirts tugged at the collar for air.
Wenger stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, scanning the room before speaking.
"Two goals in three minutes," he said evenly, though there was an edge there. "We cannot allow that. Especially against a player like Carroll."
His gaze swept the defenders, then the midfielders.
"You must read the ga better. He is their danger. You know this. It is not enough to mark him — you must compete with him. Every ball, every jump. Don't give him a second look at goal."
rtesacker nodded slowly, jaw tight. Gabriel sat forward, elbows on knees, listening intently.
Wenger turned toward the attackers next. "When we are ahead, we kill the ga. We do not give them hope. We had them — and we let them back."
Francesco wiped his face with a towel, still catching his breath. He could feel the frustration knotting in his chest, not just at conceding, but at how quickly the whole first-half narrative had flipped.
The manager's voice softened slightly toward the end. "The second half is ours if we are disciplined. Play our football, keep the ball moving, make them run. But when they cross — you track Carroll. Everyone. Clear?"
A low chorus of "yes, boss" murmured around the room.
Wenger gave one last look at the board, then stepped aside for Steve Bould to go over a couple of set-piece adjustnts.
The players began re-taping ankles, swapping sweat-soaked shirts for fresh ones, and grabbing last sips of energy drink. The second-half whistle was only minutes away, and the match that had looked comfortable half an hour ago was now hanging on a knife edge.
The second half didn't creep back into life — it snapped awake.
From the mont the whistle blew, West Ham ca at Arsenal like they'd slled the win in the air during the break. Carroll, already walking around with that puffed-chest swagger of a man who'd bagged two before halfti, was clearly their focal point again. Every cross, every flick, every set piece — it all felt like it had his na etched into it.
Arsenal tried to wrestle back so control in midfield, moving the ball between Coquelin, Elneny, and Özil, but the hosts weren't giving them the ti to breathe. The Hamrs were pressing in twos and threes, forcing quick decisions, forcing errors.
And then, in the 52nd minute, the blow landed.
It started with a turnover in midfield — nothing dramatic, just one of those half-mistid passes that allowed Antonio to nip in and drive forward down the right. Bellerín was tracking him, but Antonio had that extra burst, the kind you can't coach, and he managed to get half a yard on the Spaniard.
He didn't look up for long; he knew exactly where Carroll would be. The cross ca in early, fizzed hard and flat toward the penalty spot. Carroll had already tid his run to perfection, peeling off Gabriel's shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
One stride, one leap — and his header was brutal. Not just strong, but perfectly angled, thudding into the turf before bouncing high past Ospina's desperate dive.
3–2.
The roar inside the stadium was different now — less celebration, more a wave crashing down on Arsenal. Carroll, arms stretched wide, looked like he could've powered the whole of East London with the adrenaline running through him. His teammates sward him, and the Arsenal players were left standing in a loose huddle, glancing at one another, no one saying much.
Francesco's jaw was tight as he jogged back to his spot for the restart. He could still hear the echo of the header in his mind, could still see the pure inevitability of it once the ball left Antonio's boot.
They needed a response, and they needed it quickly.
For the next ten minutes, Arsenal tried to push forward, but West Ham had dropped just deep enough to make space tight while still springing forward with nace whenever they won it back. Carroll was a constant shadow over the defense, dragging Gabriel and rtesacker into aerial duels that left them gritting their teeth.
By the 65th minute, Wenger had seen enough. He stepped to the edge of his technical area, gave a couple of quick gestures toward the bench, and the fourth official's board went up.
Elneny was the first to co off, replaced by Aaron Ramsey — a shift toward more attacking intent from midfield. Then ca the double change up front: Iwobi, who had run himself ragged down the left, and Welbeck, who had been fighting hard but struggling for space, were replaced by Theo Walcott and Olivier Giroud.
It was a statent — fresh legs, fresh threat, and a clear sign they weren't going to settle for just chasing shadows.
The impact was almost imdiate. Giroud planted himself in the middle, occupying both centre-backs, while Walcott stretched the width on the right, giving Francesco a little more space to tuck inside and combine. Özil, freed from so defensive work by Ramsey's arrival, began finding pockets again.
The equalizer ca in the 70th minute, and it had the ssy, scrappy beauty of a goal born from sheer persistence.
Arsenal won a corner after a quick combination between Ramsey and Özil forced Ogbonna to block a cross behind. Özil jogged over to take it, adjusting his socks before delivering a teasing ball into the heart of the box.
Ogbonna t it first, powering his header clear, but it didn't travel far — maybe fifteen yards outside the area, right into the path of Bellerín. The right-back didn't panic. One quick touch to steady himself, eyes up, and then he fizzed a low ball straight back into the mixer.
It skipped past three claret shirts, catching them flat-footed, and there was Per rtesacker, ghosting in from the blind side. One swing of the boot and the ball was rifled into the roof of the net before Adrian could even flinch.
3–3.
The away end erupted like a shaken bottle finally uncapped, red shirts mobbing rtesacker near the penalty spot. The captain just gave a sharp nod, almost as if to say, Right. We're back in this. Now we go win it.
Francesco jogged back to position, heart pounding, the noise still rattling in his ears. The ga was wide open again, but he could feel the montum tilting their way.
The atmosphere after the equaliser felt charged — not just noisy, but alive in a way that made the air prickle against your skin. Arsenal had clawed their way back to 3–3, and the shift in montum was almost tangible.
Francesco could sense it in the way West Ham's midfield suddenly looked a step slower to close down, in how their full-backs hesitated before bombing forward, as though wary of leaving too much space behind.
The Arsenal players, on the other hand, were buzzing. Ramsey had slotted into midfield with that restless energy of his, constantly showing for the ball, playing quick one-twos with Özil and Coquelin. Giroud was causing a nuisance up top — not sprinting everywhere, but holding his ground, pinning centre-backs like an anchor, and forcing them to keep glancing over their shoulders.
Walcott, anwhile, was doing what Walcott did best when he was in the mood — timing his runs like clockwork. You could see the panic ripple through the West Ham back line every ti he darted into the channels. Francesco had already spotted him twice making those sharp diagonal bursts, hands up, calling for the ball. The goal felt close.
And yet, there was always that lingering danger. Carroll was still prowling, and every ti West Ham won a set piece, it was like the volu in the stadium turned up a notch. Ospina was barking orders, arms windmilling, organising bodies in front of him like chess pieces, because everyone knew — one good delivery, one leap from Carroll, and the whole ga could flip again.
The minutes ticked by, the match stretched. Both sides traded half-chances: a Giroud header straight at Adrian, a Payet free-kick curling just over the bar, a low drive from Ramsey flashing across the face of goal with no one able to get a touch.
Then ca the mont in the 81st minute.
It began in Arsenal's own half. Coquelin intercepted a loose pass and quickly shuffled it to Özil, who didn't need to think twice. One glance, one perfectly weighted pass to the right, and Walcott was off — accelerating into space like he'd been shot from a slingshot.
The ball rolled ahead of him, teasing the chase from Kouyate, but Walcott's pace made it a lost cause for the defender. He looked up once, scanning the box, and saw Giroud muscling his way into position near the penalty spot.
The cross wasn't fancy — no float, no curl — just a sharp, low ball drilled with precision. Giroud t it like a man who had rehearsed that exact finish a thousand tis. He stepped into the strike, side-footing it with enough force to skim the turf, sending it skidding beyond Adrian's dive and into the far corner.
4–3.
The Arsenal end detonated. Flags whipped the air, people tumbled over the rows hugging strangers, voices cracked from screaming. Giroud wheeled away toward the corner flag, arms flung wide, the kind of celebration that was half joy, half defiance. Walcott sprinted to et him, leaping onto his back, grinning like a kid who'd just got away with sothing brilliant.
Francesco joined the rush, the thud of boots against turf drowned out by the roar. He slapped Giroud on the back, shouted sothing he wasn't even sure Giroud could hear over the din, and turned to wave toward the away section. The energy there was electric — raw belief, pulsing through every clap and chant.
But with nine minutes plus stoppage ti still on the clock, no one was under any illusions. This wasn't over.
The ga's tempo cranked up again. West Ham threw n forward — Antonio kept charging down the right, Carroll drifted into wide positions before cutting back in to attack crosses, and Payet began dropping deeper to collect the ball, trying to spark sothing.
Each West Ham foray had Arsenal fans' hearts in their mouths. rtesacker and Gabriel, both under siege in the air, started throwing themselves at every delivery, every second ball. Koscielny barked instructions like a man possessed, while Coquelin patrolled in front of them, sticking to Carroll whenever the big striker drifted away from the penalty area.
At one point in the 86th minute, a corner to West Ham saw Carroll rise again — but this ti, Ospina's fists punched the ball away, and the rebound was hacked clear by Ramsey. Francesco could feel the entire team's collective pulse thundering as they tried to ride out each attack.
When Arsenal did win the ball, they were smart with it. Giroud dropped deep to hold possession, Özil slowed things down with little sideways passes, and Walcott's runs kept forcing West Ham to retreat rather than gamble too many n forward.
By the ti the board went up showing four minutes of stoppage ti, the tension was unbearable. The Arsenal bench were all on their feet, shouting instructions, urging the players to keep their shape. In the stands, away fans whistled for the final blow, each second dragging like an eternity.
West Ham had one last push — a free-kick from deep, pumped high into the Arsenal box. Everyone went up for it: Carroll, Ogbonna, even Adrian had raced forward. But the header was glanced wide, missing the far post by inches. The collective exhale from the Arsenal players was almost visible.
Seconds later, the whistle finally ca.
Full ti.
West Ham 3 — Arsenal 4.
The celebrations from the Arsenal end were a wall of sound, all lungs and limbs and joy. Players hugged in twos and threes, so collapsing to their knees in sheer exhaustion, others punching the air. Giroud and Walcott took a mont to salute the travelling supporters, hands raised in thanks, while Özil walked slowly toward the away section, clapping above his head.
Francesco lingered for a mont, hands on hips, looking around at the scene — the jubilation in red and white, the deflated figures in claret and blue, the scoreboard still glowing 4–3. It wasn't a perfect performance. In truth, it had been ssy, stressful, and chaotic. But it was also the kind of win that lodged itself in your mory, the kind you felt in your bones long after you left the pitch.
As they walked toward the tunnel, Wenger's handshake was firm but his smile was asured — the smile of a man who was proud, but also already thinking of what could be improved. Steve Bould gave Giroud a playful slap on the back, Ramsey exchanged a word with Özil, and the air in the tunnel buzzed with the low hum of a team who'd fought, stumbled, and then fought again to take all three points.
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Na : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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: 48
Goal: 68
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9
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