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She rested her head on his shoulder again, and they sat there while the light outside faded, the tree glowing brighter as the room darkened.
The light outside finally disappeared completely, leaving the house wrapped in a soft amber glow from lamps and the Christmas tree. The city beyond the windows felt distant, muted, like it had agreed to give them the night off.
They stayed on the sofa longer than either of them realized.
Not talking much.
Not doing anything in particular.
Just existing side by side.
Eventually, Leah shifted, stretching her legs and letting out a quiet sigh.
"We should probably sleep," she said, though there was no urgency in it.
"Probably," Francesco agreed, without moving.
They both smiled at that.
When they finally did turn in for the night, it wasn't dramatic or rushed. Just teeth brushed, lights dimmed, the familiar routine slipping back into place. Leah curled into him again once they were under the covers, fitting there like it had always been that way.
Francesco lay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, mind drifting.
Not to tactics.
Not to records.
Not to pressure.
But to faces.
The kids.
The staff.
The warmth in that room.
He felt tired in the best way.
The kind that came from giving something away rather than having something taken from you.
Eventually, sleep claimed him.
Boxing Day came quickly.
Too quickly.
The alarm cut through the early morning darkness like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. Francesco groaned softly and reached for it before it could ring again, silencing it with a practiced motion.
For a second, he stayed still, eyes closed.
Then memory returned in layers.
Matchday.
West Brom.
Home.
Emirates.
He turned his head slightly.
Leah was still asleep, curled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow. The bracelet he'd given her caught the faint light, glinting softly.
He watched her for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
She stirred, murmuring something incoherent, then smiled faintly without waking.
He dressed quietly, moving through the room with the efficiency of someone who had done this hundreds of times. Training gear. Jacket. Boots slung over his shoulder.
Downstairs, the house was silent again, the Christmas tree lights still glowing softly like a reminder of yesterday.
He grabbed a quick coffee, letting the bitterness wake him properly, then headed out into the cold.
The air hit him immediately, sharp and bracing.
Matchday air felt different.
Always had.
The team bus was already waiting when he arrived at the Colney, as the engine humming steadily. A few teammates were there already, hoods up, headphones in, faces set.
He climbed aboard, nodding greetings.
"Morning, skipper," Bellerin said, grinning despite the hour.
"Morning," Francesco replied. "You look too awake."
"I'm running on Christmas leftovers and bad decisions," Bellerin said proudly.
Alexis was already seated, hood pulled low, headphones on, eyes closed. Iwobi sat nearby, scrolling through his phone.
Kanté looked up and smiled, small and warm.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
"Still," Francesco replied with a grin.
The bus rolled into motion, pulling away from the quiet streets as London slowly woke up around them.
Outside, fans were already lining roads, scarves wrapped tight, hands raised in greeting as the bus passed. Some waved. Some filmed. Some just stood and watched, smiling like this was part of their holiday ritual.
Francesco sat back in his seat, headphones on but music low, letting the city slide by.
He thought of the photo he'd posted the night before.
It had gone everywhere.
News outlets.
Fan pages.
Commentators.
But he hadn't opened any of it.
Today was about football again.
When the Emirates finally came into view, something shifted in his chest, familiar and steady.
Home.
The bus pulled in, parking beneath the stadium. The doors opened, letting in a rush of sound immediately.
Fans.
Even this early, they were there.
As Francesco stepped off the bus with the others, a roar rose up.
"FRAN-CES-CO!"
"CAP-TAIN!"
"NINE-TWO!"
He glanced up, surprised despite himself.
Scarves waved.
Phones lifted.
Faces lit with excitement.
He raised a hand in acknowledgment, offering a small smile.
Inside, the corridors buzzed with controlled chaos.
Staff moving quickly.
Boots echoing against concrete.
Voices overlapping.
The dressing room greeted them with its familiar scent of liniment, fresh kits laid out neatly at each place.
Francesco's shirt waited for him.
Red.
White sleeves.
Captain's armband folded carefully on top.
He ran his fingers over it briefly before changing.
Training kit on, boots laced, they headed back out to the pitch for warm-up.
The Emirates was already filling, red spreading across the stands like fire.
As they stepped onto the grass, the noise swelled again.
Chants rolled down in waves.
Applause thundered.
Francesco jogged lightly, testing his legs, breathing in the cold air. The pitch felt perfect underfoot, springy, alive.
He exchanged short passes with Ozil, the ball gliding effortlessly between them. Alexis sprinted past on the wing, sharp and electric even in warm-up. Kanté covered ground like he had springs in his boots, everywhere at once.
Bellerin raced Iwobi down the flank, laughing when he won by a step.
Cech moved calmly in goal, directing, organizing, a presence even in warm-up.
Everything felt right.
After the final stretches and sprints, they jogged back inside, breath steaming slightly.
The dressing room quieted as they changed into match kit, the hum of anticipation settling in.
Wenger entered last.
As always, the room straightened without him saying a word.
He stood at the front, hands folded behind his back, eyes moving slowly across the group.
"Gentlemen," he began, voice calm but firm, "today is Boxing Day. A special day in English football. The fixtures come fast, the body feels heavy, the mind must be sharp."
He paused.
"We play at home. That is our advantage. Use it."
He turned to the board and gestured.
"We will play 4-2-3-1."
No surprise.
But still, focus sharpened.
"In goal," Wenger continued, "Petr."
Cech nodded once.
"Defenders. Nacho on the left. Virgil and Laurent in the center. Hector on the right."
Van Dijk and Koscielny exchanged a brief glance, already aligned. Bellerin bounced lightly on his toes.
"Midfield," Wenger said. "N'Golo and Granit as the double pivot."
Kanté inclined his head. Xhaka cracked his knuckles, focused.
"Mesut," Wenger continued, "you are central."
Ozil smiled faintly.
"Alexis on the left. Alex on the right."
Sanchez rolled his shoulders. Iwobi nodded, eyes bright.
"And up front," Wenger finished, turning his gaze to Francesco, "Francesco. Captain."
Francesco met his eyes and nodded once.
"Our substitutes," Wenger added, "Ospina. Holding. Gibbs. Coquelin. Ramsey. Gnabry. Giroud."
He stepped back.
"This is not about records," Wenger said quietly. "This is about consistency. Respect West Brom. Play with intelligence. Play with courage."
He looked around one last time.
"And enjoy it."
The room shifted.
Boots tightened.
Armbands slipped on.
Francesco pulled the captain's armband up his sleeve, adjusting it until it sat just right.
Then it was time.
They formed up in the tunnel, the sound of the stadium seeping in through concrete walls, distant but powerful.
West Brom stood opposite them.
Focused.
Serious.
Francesco stood at the front, breathing slow and steady.
As they stepped out, the noise exploded.
And then he saw it.
The tifo rose slowly in the North Bank.
Massive.
Red and white.
His face, stylized, powerful.
The number 92 emblazoned beneath it.
A new world record.
The crowd roared even louder.
For a split second, it hit him.
The weight.
The pride.
The disbelief.
He swallowed and kept walking.
This was home.
The handshake ceremony passed in a blur of grips and nods. When it came time for the coin toss, Francesco stepped forward with the referee and Darren Fletcher, West Brom's captain.
They exchanged brief nods.
The coin spun.
Clinked.
Landed.
Francesco chose right.
The referee nodded.
Arsenal would kick off.
He turned back toward his teammates, eyes burning with focus.
Game on.
The whistle cut cleanly through the noise.
Sharp.
Kick-off.
Francesco took the first touch, rolling the ball back into midfield with his right foot, calm and deliberate. Xhaka received it, opening his body instantly, switching play wide before West Brom could even step forward.
From the very first minute, it was clear.
This was Arsenal's game.
The midfield triangle settled into rhythm almost immediately.
Özil drifted into pockets of space like he was invisible to defenders, always half a second ahead of the picture West Brom were trying to read. Kanté buzzed around him, snapping into challenges, stealing possession, turning defense into attack in a heartbeat. Xhaka dictated tempo from deeper, spraying passes left and right, calm and authoritative.
West Brom tried to press.
They really did.
Fletcher barked orders, pushing up.
Chadli shuffled across, trying to close angles.
Yacob stepped forward aggressively, attempting to disrupt.
But they couldn't get near the ball.
Every time one of them stepped out, the ball was already gone.
One touch.
Two touches.
Move.
The Emirates felt it too.
You could sense the confidence spreading through the stands, the way the crowd leaned forward, trusting the pattern they were seeing.
Francesco dropped deep early, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to stretch the defensive line. When he checked back, Evans followed him. When he spun and ran, McAuley hesitated.
That half second was all Arsenal needed.
Alexis hugged the left touchline, sharp and aggressive, constantly squaring up Nyom, forcing him backward with quick feet and sudden bursts of pace. On the right, Iwobi drifted inside intelligently, linking with Özil, drawing Dawson out of position.
Bellerín and Monreal overlapped relentlessly, pushing West Brom's wide midfielders deeper and deeper until their shape began to warp.
The visitors' front three of Rondón, Phillips, Bruno were effectively isolated.
Every time they tried to break, Kanté was there.
A foot in.
A shoulder nudge.
A clean interception.
And if Kanté missed it, Xhaka swept up.
If Xhaka was bypassed, Van Dijk stepped out, powerful and composed, snuffing danger before it even resembled a threat.
Petr Čech watched from his box, hands resting on his hips, barely tested, occasionally shouting instructions more out of habit than necessity.
The dominance wasn't frantic.
It was controlled.
Arsenal passed West Brom into submission.
By the tenth minute, the chant started.
Ole, ole, ole.
Every completed pass drew applause. Every switch of play pulled gasps from the crowd.
Francesco stayed patient.
He didn't force anything.
Didn't chase the game.
He trusted it.
At the fifteenth minute, Özil slipped a pass through the lines that split Fletcher and Yacob cleanly. Francesco peeled off Dawson's shoulder and got there first, but Foster rushed out quickly, smothering the shot.
Close.
He jogged back, clapping his hands once.
"Again," he called.
Alexis grinned from the wing.
West Brom tried to slow the tempo.
Longer clearances.
Deeper lines.
More bodies behind the ball.
But it only delayed the inevitable.
At the twentieth minute, the Emirates rose almost instinctively.
The move started with Kanté.
A simple interception near the center circle, plucking the ball out of the air like it belonged to him. He took one touch, laid it off to Xhaka, and immediately sprinted forward to offer a passing lane.
Xhaka didn't use it.
Instead, he threaded a crisp ball into Özil's feet.
And that was where everything changed.
Özil received the ball on the half-turn, his first touch cushioning it perfectly, freezing Yacob for just a fraction of a second. Evans stepped out, unsure whether to press or hold the line.
That hesitation killed them.
Francesco saw it instantly.
He made his run between Evans and McAuley, curving it slightly to stay onside, timing it to perfection. Özil didn't even look.
He never needed to.
The pass slid through like it had been pre-written.
Weighted.
Precise.
Deadly.
Francesco met it in stride.
One touch to set.
One glance up.
Foster rushed out, arms wide, trying to make himself big.
Francesco stayed calm.
He opened his body and struck low with his left foot, guiding the ball past Foster's outstretched leg and into the far corner.
Net.
The Emirates exploded.
Noise crashed down in waves, deafening and joyful and raw.
Francesco wheeled away, arms outstretched, mouth open in a shout that was swallowed instantly by the roar. Alexis was the first to reach him, slamming into his back. Özil followed, smiling softly as he wrapped an arm around him.
Twenty minutes.
One-nil.
Number ninety three.
The stadium screens flashed the number immediately, and the crowd responded with even more volume.
He jogged back toward the halfway line, breathing hard, chest heaving, eyes bright.
Captain.
Record breaker.
Goal scorer.
But he didn't dwell.
The restart came quickly, and Arsenal pressed again.
West Brom tried to respond, pushing Phillips forward on the right, hoping to exploit space behind Monreal. Phillips attempted a cross early, but Van Dijk rose above Rondón effortlessly, heading clear.
Kanté was already there to collect the second ball.
Again.
The ball circulated.
The rhythm returned.
West Brom grew more compact, desperate to stop the bleeding, but it only made them more vulnerable to movement between the lines.
Özil kept finding space.
Iwobi kept drifting.
Alexis kept driving.
At the thirty second minute, it happened again.
This time, it was Iwobi who unlocked them.
The move began on the right flank. Bellerín surged forward, dragging Chadli with him. Iwobi tucked inside, receiving a sharp pass from Xhaka, then quickly laid it off to Özil before spinning into space.
Özil returned the ball instantly.
One touch football.
Iwobi lifted his head and saw Francesco already on the move, darting between Dawson and Evans again. This time, the run was shorter, sharper.
Iwobi slipped the pass through.
Francesco met it just inside the box.
No hesitation.
He struck it first time with his right foot, driving it low and hard across Foster.
The keeper got a hand to it.
Not enough.
The ball slammed into the inside of the post and bounced in.
Two-nil.
Pandemonium.
Francesco dropped to his knees instinctively, sliding across the turf, fists clenched, head thrown back as the roar washed over him. Teammates piled in from all directions.
Iwobi screamed something unintelligible into his ear.
Alexis thumped his chest.
Özil simply smiled again, calm as ever.
The North Bank bounced.
Chants thundered.
"FRAN-CES-CO! FRAN-CES-CO!"
He rose slowly, breathing hard, adrenaline flooding his veins.
Two goals.
Thirty two minutes.
West Brom looked shell shocked.
Fletcher stood with hands on hips, shaking his head. McAuley shouted instructions, but his voice was lost in the noise. Foster kicked the post in frustration.
Arsenal didn't let up.
They continued to dominate possession, passing with confidence, drawing fouls, controlling space. West Brom's attacks were sporadic at best.
One hopeful long ball toward Rondón was swallowed up by Koscielny.
A speculative shot from distance by Chadli sailed harmlessly over.
A corner came to nothing as Van Dijk cleared again.
At halftime, the score remained two-nil.
The whistle blew, and the players jogged toward the tunnel.
Francesco clapped his hands together, turning to his teammates.
"Same again," he said simply.
Inside the dressing room, steam rose from bodies as boots were kicked off and water bottles grabbed. The mood was focused but confident.
Wenger entered, nodding once.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
He gestured toward the board.
"But do not relax. West Brom will change something. Be ready."
He looked at Francesco.
"Continue to lead. Continue to move."
Francesco nodded, heart still racing, mind already on the second half.
The second half began the way the first had ended.
With control.
With patience.
With Arsenal refusing to let go of the game they had already wrapped their hands around.
The whistle blew, and West Brom kicked off, but it felt more like a formality than a shift in momentum. They tried to move the ball quickly, tried to push their lines a little higher, as Wenger had warned they might. Fletcher urged his teammates on, clapping, shouting, demanding intensity.
For about thirty seconds, they had it.
Then Kanté took it away.
A loose touch near the center circle, barely a mistake by Premier League standards, but enough. Kanté pounced, nicking the ball cleanly, immediately releasing it to Xhaka, who slowed the tempo with the confidence of a conductor lifting his baton.
The Emirates exhaled.
Back to normal.
Arsenal settled into the second half like a team slipping back into a familiar rhythm, unbothered by the break, unfazed by any notion of complacency. The passing lanes opened up again almost instantly. Özil drifted left, then right, then deeper, pulling markers with him like magnets that couldn't quite stick. Iwobi continued to find pockets of space between fullback and center-back, intelligent and brave in his movement.
Alexis, relentless as ever, drove at Nyom with the same hunger he'd shown in the opening minutes, forcing the defender into hurried clearances and awkward angles.
And Francesco?
He stayed central.
Patient.
Watching.
The second half wasn't frantic. It wasn't about forcing moments. Arsenal were already ahead; they didn't need chaos. They needed control, and they had it in abundance.
By the fifty-minute mark, the statistics on the big screen were already starting to tell a story that matched what every eye in the stadium could see.
Eighteen attempts for Arsenal.
Twelve on target.
West Brom?
Five attempts.
None troubling Čech.
Not a single shot on target.
Čech had touched the ball more with his feet than his hands, calmly recycling possession, occasionally gesturing to his defenders to spread wider, to keep building.
West Brom were running.
Chasing shadows.
They dropped deeper and deeper, their defensive line now almost glued to the edge of their box. Evans and McAuley exchanged frustrated looks, constantly checking over their shoulders, trying to track Francesco's movement.
Because even when he wasn't touching the ball, he was everywhere.
Dragging defenders.
Creating space.
Opening lanes.
At the fifty fifth minute, Arsenal won a free kick just outside the box.
Alexis had been chopped down after another aggressive run, Nyom mistiming his challenge and catching shin instead of ball. The whistle went immediately, and the crowd sensed it before the referee even raised his arm.
This was dangerous.
Francesco picked the ball up without hesitation.
Özil hovered nearby, hands on hips, calm as always. Xhaka stood a few yards back, watching the wall, calculating angles. Alexis glanced at Francesco, eyebrows raised slightly.
"You want it?" he asked quietly.
Francesco nodded.
Always.
He placed the ball carefully, adjusting it once, then again, making sure the valve faced away, a small ritual he'd had since he was a teenager. He stepped back, eyes flicking between the wall and the goal.
Foster was already setting his wall, barking orders, shuffling left and right, trying to cover the near post while keeping one eye on the far corner.
The Emirates went quiet.
Not silent.
But hushed.
That expectant stillness that only comes when something feels inevitable.
Francesco took a deep breath.
He remembered the kids from the night before.
The laughter.
The warmth.
Then he blocked everything else out.
The whistle blew.
He ran up, planting his left foot firmly beside the ball, opening his body just enough. His right foot whipped through the ball, clean and precise, the strike sounding sharp and true.
The ball rose.
Curved.
Dipped.
Foster sprang to his right, fully extended, fingertips straining, but it was already past him. The ball kissed the underside of the top corner, snapping the net back violently before dropping in.
Goal.
For a split second, the stadium seemed to inhale.
Then it exploded.
Absolute bedlam.
Francesco turned away, arms already spreading, a grin breaking across his face before he could stop it. He didn't sprint this time. He jogged, soaking it in, eyes wide, chest pounding.
Hattrick.
Fifty eighth minute.
Number ninety five.
The screen flashed it instantly, bold and impossible. 95.
A new number.
A new milestone.
Teammates swarmed him again. Alexis leapt onto his back, laughing. Xhaka wrapped him in a bear hug, shouting something in Swiss-accented English. Kanté arrived last, smiling so hard his eyes nearly disappeared.
Özil placed a hand on Francesco's head, ruffling his hair lightly.
"Nice," he said simply.
Francesco laughed, breathless, overwhelmed.
He jogged back to the halfway line, shaking his head in disbelief.
Three goals.
Top corner free kick.
Home crowd singing his name.
West Brom looked broken now.
Heads dropped.
Shoulders slumped.
Tony Pulis stood on the touchline, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, already calling for changes that felt more like damage control than strategy.
But Arsenal weren't done.
Not even close.
They continued to move the ball with ease, the confidence flowing through every pass, every movement. The crowd sang continuously now, voices blending into one long, rolling anthem.
At the sixty seventh minute, something happened that no one in the stadium would forget.
The move started innocuously enough.
Xhaka collected the ball deep, switching play wide to Monreal. Monreal drove forward, exchanging a quick one-two with Alexis before slipping the ball inside to Özil.
Özil, under pressure, flicked it first time to Iwobi, who had drifted centrally again.
Iwobi turned.
And Francesco went.
The run was explosive.
He darted between Evans and Dawson, who collided slightly, neither committing fully. Iwobi saw it immediately, sliding a perfectly weighted pass into space.
Francesco was through.
One on one.
Again.
Foster rushed out, desperate now, arms flailing, trying to narrow the angle. Francesco stayed calm, waited for the keeper to commit, then gently lifted the ball over him with the outside of his boot.
Time seemed to slow.
The ball arced softly through the air, landing just inside the post, rolling over the line as Foster scrambled back helplessly.
For a heartbeat, there was disbelief.
Then the Emirates lost its mind.
Four.
Four goals.
In one game.
Francesco stood still for a moment, hands on his head, staring at the net like he needed confirmation it was real. Then Alexis crashed into him again, followed by half the team.
Iwobi screamed in pure joy, pointing at Francesco, shaking his head.
Özil laughed openly now.
Bellerín sprinted the length of the pitch just to join the celebration.
The chant changed.
It grew louder.
Deeper.
"FOUR-NINETY-SIX! FOUR-NINETY-SIX!"
Francesco laughed, overwhelmed, shaking his head again as he jogged back. He felt light, almost unreal, like the pitch beneath his boots wasn't entirely solid.
On the touchline, Wenger glanced at his watch.
Seventieth minute.
That was enough.
The fourth official's board went up.
Three substitutions.
Francesco.
Iwobi.
Özil.
Off.
Giroud.
Gnabry.
Ramsey.
On.
The stadium understood instantly.
As Francesco jogged toward the sideline, he slowed slightly, scanning the stands, taking it all in. He slipped the captain's armband off his arm and handed it to Koscielny, who grasped his shoulder firmly.
"Well done," Laurent said quietly.
Francesco nodded, throat tight.
As he stepped over the white line, the Emirates rose.
Every single seat.
A standing ovation that thundered through the stadium, louder than any goal celebration. Applause crashed down from every corner, mixed with chants, cheers, and roars of appreciation.
Francesco raised a hand, then both, clapping back toward the crowd, eyes shining.
He took his seat on the bench, breathing deeply, heart still racing.
Four goals.
Ninety six.
And the game still belonged to Arsenal.
The game had settled into a steady rhythm after Francesco's departure from the pitch. Arsenal's dominance had not wavered; if anything, it had become more refined. The tempo was smooth, the passing crisp, and every player seemed to know exactly where the next ball would land before it arrived. Wenger's substitutions had been tactical, surgical as bringing on Giroud for added aerial threat, Gnabry to stretch West Brom's backline, and Ramsey to inject fresh energy into the midfield.
West Brom, on the other hand, were visibly struggling. Their shape had been broken repeatedly, their attempts to regain cohesion frustrated by the relentless movement of Arsenal's players. Fletcher barked instructions from the sideline, McAuley and Evans collided a few times trying to cover for lapses, and Foster had already been beaten multiple times. The visitors' frustration became increasingly palpable, their hope fading as they realized they were outclassed not by one or two players but by the cohesion and intelligence of the Arsenal machine.
At the seventy-second minute, Tony Pulis made his response, replacing Chadli and Rondón with McClean and Robson-Kanu. The changes were aimed at bringing fresh legs and some pace up front, but it was clear the players were still trying to adapt to a match they had already been dominated from start to finish. McClean immediately dropped deeper, attempting to pressure Xhaka and Kanté, while Robson-Kanu's instinctive runs forced Bellerín and Monreal to stay vigilant, but the timing and coordination were off. Arsenal intercepted nearly every attempt to exploit spaces, the pivot of Kanté and Xhaka acting as an impenetrable wall in the middle, dictating the rhythm, and snuffing out threats before they developed.
The Emirates continued to pulse with energy. Every touch by Arsenal seemed to carry a spark, every pass an invitation for the fans to rise with anticipation. The chants of "FRAN-CES-CO!" still echoed through the stands, though now they were accompanied by shouts for Sanchez, Özil, and Ramsey as they wove through West Brom's lines. The stadium had become a living entity, feeding off the players' energy and feeding it back to them in return.
By the seventy eighth minute, the persistence of Arsenal's attack paid off once more. Ramsey, having just settled into the pitch, picked up the ball near the center circle, surveying the field with calm precision. He spotted Alexis Sanchez making a diagonal run between McClean and Dawson. With a perfectly weighted pass, he split the defensive line. Alexis took the ball in stride, eyes up, measuring the distance and angle. McClean attempted to close him down, but Alexis's pace was electric. A step, two steps, and he was inside the box, angling toward the far post.
Foster rushed out, but Alexis had already made his decision. With a quick, precise strike of his right foot, the ball sailed past the keeper, slipping neatly inside the near post. Goal.
The Emirates erupted again, a thunderous wave of sound that seemed impossible to contain. Alexis sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, celebrating with fans who were standing and cheering with every ounce of their being. Ramsey ran after him, clapping him on the back, while Gnabry and Giroud joined the jubilation. The scoreboard now read Arsenal five, West Brom zero, and the crowd's energy was electric, joyous, almost tangible.
Even from the bench, Francesco watched with a smile, hands resting on his knees. He had set the tone for the match, and now he could bask in the artistry of his teammates as they continued to dismantle the opposition. There was pride in watching Sanchez score, in seeing Ramsey orchestrate, and in knowing that the collective effort of the team had turned the match into a statement of a performance for the ages.
The minutes ticked by, and West Brom attempted one last flurry of attacks. McClean tried a daring run down the right flank, pushing toward the byline, but Monreal was already there, reading the play perfectly, forcing the ball out for a harmless throw-in. Robson-Kanu attempted a diagonal cut, hoping to exploit Giroud's pace, but Van Dijk read it instantly, stepping across to intercept, sliding the ball safely back to Čech, who calmly recycled it into midfield. Every attack West Brom mustered was suffocated before it could breathe, Arsenal's defensive organization impeccable.
Giroud, Gnabry, and Ramsey continued to rotate intelligently, keeping West Brom guessing, exploiting gaps that rarely appeared but were always sought out. The fluidity of movement, the awareness of each player, the harmony of the team as it was a display that reminded even casual spectators why Arsenal had dominated not just this match but had built a reputation over the years for meticulous, thoughtful football.
By the eighty eighth minute, it was Giroud who etched the final mark on the game. Gnabry, seeing space between Evans and McAuley, collected the ball near the right touchline, shielding it with his body and pivoting cleverly to slip past the first challenge. His eyes scanned the box and found Giroud, positioned between defenders, reading the movement perfectly. With a delicate but precise pass, Gnabry threaded the ball through the narrowest of lanes.
Giroud adjusted, body poised, one touch to control, one touch to lift the ball, and then a powerful strike on goal. Foster dove, stretching every muscle, fingertips brushing the ball, but it was already too late. The ball hit the net, the net snapping back violently as if it, too, wanted to cheer. Goal. Arsenal six, West Brom zero.
The Emirates became a torrent of sound. Fans jumped from their seats, scarves waving, voices hoarse from cheering and shouting. The players celebrated on the pitch. Giroud ran toward the corner flag, arms raised, while Ramsey and Gnabry joined him, laughing and slapping each other on the back. Monreal and Bellerín clapped along from the defensive line, while Čech raised his gloves, acknowledging the unstoppable performance.
Even from the bench, Francesco could feel the vibrations of the stadium, the pulse of the crowd, the thrill of being part of a game that was historic in more than just the numbers. Four goals from him. One from Sanchez. One from Giroud. Six-nil. And a sense that Arsenal had not only won the game but had made a statement to the league, to the fans, and perhaps most importantly, to themselves.
As the final whistle approached, Wenger's satisfaction was evident. He leaned lightly on the technical area railing, eyes sweeping over his players with a subtle but unmistakable pride. The substitutions, the rotations, the strategic patience as it all culminated in a flawless display. West Brom trudged off the pitch, heads low, exhausted, defeated by an opponent that had anticipated, countered, and dominated every move.
The whistle finally blew, signaling the end of the match. Arsenal had not only won but had done so with authority, grace, and brilliance. The Emirates roared in response, chants echoing, drums pounding, fans waving flags, scarves flying in every direction. The celebration was both immediate and overwhelming, a spontaneous eruption of joy that had been building for ninety minutes.
Francesco stood as he had on the bench, slowly clapping, raising his arms to acknowledge the adoration of the crowd. When the team walked off together toward the tunnel, the applause followed, unwavering. Fans held banners aloft, others celebrating the record, the joy, and the magic of the day.
He exchanged brief smiles with teammates as they passed, absorbing their happiness and camaraderie. Wenger patted him lightly on the shoulder, a quiet acknowledgment of not just the goals, but the leadership, the spirit, and the professionalism Francesco had displayed throughout the game. The captain's armband had been passed during his substitution, but his presence had dominated the match from start to finish.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
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, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 25
Goal: 41
Assist: 0
MOTM: 5
POTM: 1
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