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Later, as the dressing room emptied and Francesco gathered his things, he caught his reflection in the mirror again. Captain's armband folded neatly in his locker. Sweat still drying on his skin. Eyes steady.
Francesco stood there for a moment longer, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
Captain's armband folded neatly in the locker.
Sweat still clinging to his skin.
Eyes steady, but thoughtful.
He reached out, picked up the armband, and ran his thumb along the fabric. It wasn't superstition. It was grounding. A reminder that this wasn't just about him anymore, it never really had been.
When he finally slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out of the dressing room, the corridor felt quieter than usual. Not empty. Just composed. The kind of quiet that comes when something important has already been said, understood, and accepted.
The team bus idled softly outside London Colney as players filed on, one by one, dressed in club tracksuits, headphones on, conversations low and relaxed. The morning air was cool, grey clouds hanging low over the training ground, promising a heavy, physical afternoon ahead.
Francesco climbed the steps and moved down the aisle, nodding to a few teammates as he passed.
"Morning, cap," Walcott said, tapping the seat beside him.
"Morning," Francesco replied, dropping into the seat across the aisle instead, close enough for conversation but far enough to let thoughts breathe.
Kanté sat a few rows ahead, already staring out the window, hands folded neatly in his lap. Xhaka leaned back with his arms crossed, jaw set, eyes closed. Alexis had his headphones on but no music playing—his gaze fixed forward, focused, restless.
The bus pulled away smoothly, London Colney disappearing behind them as the city slowly replaced trees and training pitches.
Someone near the back broke the quiet first.
"Still feels strange," Holding muttered. "Yesterday."
Bellerín nodded. "Yeah. But in a good way, somehow."
Francesco listened without interrupting. Leadership didn't always require answers. Sometimes it just required space.
The bus rolled on, traffic thickening as they moved closer to the city. Outside, London blurred past in muted colours—brick buildings, graffiti, scaffolding, life stacked tightly together.
Giroud leaned across the aisle toward Francesco. "Big test today."
"They all are," Francesco replied.
Giroud smiled faintly. "West Ham away always has bite."
Francesco nodded. London Stadium wasn't an easy place to play. The crowd sat farther back from the pitch than traditional grounds, but the noise carried differently from rolling, echoing, relentless. And Mark Noble would make sure his team fought for every second.
The bus quieted again as they neared the stadium. Focus settled in. Headphones went on. Conversations ended. Rituals took over.
Francesco closed his eyes briefly, breathing slow and measured.
Finish what you start.
The bus pulled into the stadium complex, guided by stewards in bright jackets. As the engine cut, the weight of the match pressed down gently but firmly.
Doors opened.
Cold air rushed in.
One by one, they stepped off the bus.
Cameras clicked. A few fans called out names from behind barriers.
"Francesco!"
"Alexis!"
"Come on, Arsenal!"
Francesco acknowledged them with a small nod, expression calm. Inside, he felt the familiar shift with the private man giving way to the player, the captain.
They moved quickly into the stadium, boots echoing against concrete floors as they followed staff down long corridors painted in neutral tones. The smell of fresh-cut grass drifted faintly through the air, pulling them closer to the pitch.
The away dressing room was already prepared as kits laid out precisely, boots aligned beneath benches, water bottles stacked neatly.
Francesco found his place, set his bag down, and began changing into the training kit. The room buzzed quietly now that not chatter, but readiness.
"Five minutes," a staff member called.
They jogged out together.
The pitch opened up before them as they stepped out, the vast bowl of London Stadium rising around them. The stands were still filling, pockets of claret and blue dotted with splashes of red from traveling Arsenal supporters.
Francesco jogged lightly, testing his legs, feeling the surface beneath his boots. The grass was slick, well-watered. Fast.
"Surface is quick," he called to Özil as they passed.
Özil nodded. "Ball will move nicely."
They moved through their warm-up routine with dynamic stretches, passing drills, short sprints. The ball zipped across the turf, crisp and responsive.
Francesco dropped deep during one drill, linking play, then spun forward sharply, finishing with a clean strike that snapped into the net.
Alexis grinned. "Good sign."
Francesco smiled back briefly. "Let's keep it that way."
Across the pitch, West Ham players warmed up with equal intensity. Mark Noble's voice carried clearly as he barked instructions, already wound tight.
Francesco caught his eye for a moment.
A nod.
Mutual respect.
The whistle blew, signaling the end of warm-up.
They jogged back inside.
The dressing room felt different now with focused, heavy with anticipation. Players changed into match kits in near silence, the only sounds fabric rustling, boots tightening, tape tearing.
Francesco pulled on the red shirt, feeling the weight of it settle against his shoulders. He slid the captain's armband on his left arm, adjusted it once, then left it alone.
Wenger entered quietly.
The room stood instinctively.
He raised a hand, gesturing for them to sit.
"Gentlemen," he began, voice calm, measured. "Today is about control."
He walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
"We play with intelligence. With patience. With courage."
He stopped in front of the tactics board.
"Formation," Wenger said. "4-2-3-1."
He pointed.
"Petr, in goal."
Cech nodded, expression unreadable, professional.
"Back four," Wenger continued. "Nacho on the left. Virgil, Laurent in the center. Hector on the right."
Van Dijk straightened slightly. Koscielny cracked his neck. Bellerín bounced on his toes.
"Double pivot," Wenger said. "N'Golo and Granit."
Kanté nodded once. Xhaka rolled his shoulders back.
"Mesut," Wenger said, turning slightly. "You are central. You find space."
Özil smiled faintly.
"Alexis, left. Theo, right."
Both acknowledged with sharp nods.
"And up front," Wenger said, finally turning to Francesco. "Captain. Lead the line."
Francesco met his gaze. "Yes, boss."
"Substitutes," Wenger added. "Ospina. Per. Gibbs. Coquelin. Ramsey. Gnabry. Olivier."
The mention of Per carried weight, but not uncertainty now. Just presence.
Wenger's eyes swept the room.
"This is an away match," he said. "They will press. They will fight. They will test your discipline."
He paused.
"But we are ready."
Silence followed.
"Go," Wenger finished softly. "And play."
The tunnel buzzed with energy from referees checking equipment, mascots shifting nervously, players adjusting socks and shin pads.
Arsenal lined up.
Francesco stood at the front, just behind the referee. To his right, Mark Noble.
Noble glanced sideways. "Big one."
Francesco nodded. "Always is here."
Noble smirked. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
They waited.
The stadium roared as the cue came.
Then they walked.
Light exploded around them as they stepped out into the bowl of London Stadium. The noise hit instantly with deep, layered, relentless.
They lined up.
Handshakes followed with firm grips, brief eye contact.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
The team photo.
Then Francesco and Noble walked toward the center circle, referee between them.
The coin toss was quick. Professional.
Heads.
Sides chosen.
The referee glanced at his watch, raised the whistle, and brought it to his lips.
A sharp blast cut through the noise.
Kick-off.
West Ham got the game underway, the ball rolled back cleanly from the center spot as Mark Noble chose the right side of the pitch, immediately barking instructions, arms out wide, organizing his shape before Arsenal could even settle.
Francesco took his first steps forward, eyes scanning, body loose but alert. The noise swelled again as the ball moved, the match snapping instantly into focus.
Arsenal didn't rush.
That was the first thing that became clear.
From the opening seconds, their intention was obvious that not to overwhelm West Ham with speed, not to force moments too early, but to own the center of the pitch. To dictate rhythm. To suffocate without suffocating themselves.
Özil dropped deep almost immediately, drifting just off Xhaka's shoulder, showing for the ball between lines. Kanté hovered nearby, constantly adjusting, always offering an angle. Xhaka took up his role with calm authority, switching play early when space appeared.
The ball moved left. Then right. Then back again.
West Ham responded quickly.
Instead of sitting deep, they packed the midfield.
Noble stayed central, anchoring the line. Lanzini buzzed around him, sharp and elusive. Payet floated just ahead, drifting into pockets, already looking to hurt Arsenal the moment they lost concentration. Obiang sat slightly deeper, physical and disciplined.
Four bodies.
Four barriers.
Francesco felt it immediately.
Every time Arsenal tried to progress centrally, there was pressure. Legs poking in. Shoulders nudging. Passing lanes narrowing.
But Arsenal didn't panic.
They widened the pitch.
Nacho Monreal pushed forward on the left, measured and intelligent, keeping Masuaku honest. On the opposite flank, Hector Bellerín exploded into space whenever Theo tucked inside, forcing Fernandes to retreat rather than attack.
Van Dijk and Koscielny held a high line, compact but confident. Fletcher tried to test them early, backing into defenders, dragging one out, but the pair read him well with Koscielny quick to step in, Van Dijk using his body to dominate aerially.
Payet occasionally drifted closer to Fletcher, almost like a second striker, trying to exploit moments between lines.
Each time, one of them was there.
Always.
Francesco, meanwhile, felt the battle brewing ahead of him.
Ogbonna to his left.
Collins to his right.
Reid hovering just behind.
Three center-backs rotating, nudging, tugging at shirts when the referee's view shifted elsewhere. They weren't reckless. They were clever. Experienced. Intent on making every touch uncomfortable.
Alexis darted inside from the left, trying to drag defenders with him. Walcott stretched the line on the right, threatening runs behind.
But space was limited.
Randolph stood alert in goal, shouting instructions, fists clenched, ready.
The first ten minutes passed like this with tense, tactical, heavy.
Then Arsenal started to find cracks.
It began with Ozil.
He drifted away from Noble's shadow just enough, receiving the ball on the half-turn. One touch. Two. Suddenly the tempo shifted.
Kanté surged forward to offer support. Xhaka stayed back, recycling possession calmly, switching play when West Ham overcommitted.
Francesco checked short, dragged Collins with him, then spun back into space. The ball didn't come that time, but the message was sent.
They were probing now.
At the back, Monreal timed a perfect tackle on Masuaku, clean and firm, drawing applause from the traveling Arsenal fans. Bellerín matched him moments later, using his pace to shepherd Fernandes away from danger before calmly playing the ball out.
West Ham pressed harder.
Payet tried a speculative effort from distance that blocked by Xhaka, who barely flinched as the ball thudded into his thigh.
Noble clattered into Kanté, who bounced straight back up, already chasing the loose ball.
The match was heating.
Francesco dropped deeper once more, linking play, absorbing contact, laying the ball off first-time to keep Arsenal moving. He could feel the frustration building behind him as Ogbonna's hand pressing into his back, Collins muttering under his breath.
He welcomed it.
At the 18th minute, Arsenal nearly broke through.
Özil slipped a delicious pass through a narrow channel toward Walcott, who had darted in behind. Randolph rushed out, narrowing the angle, forcing Theo wide. The shot came, low and sharp, but Randolph saved with his foot, pushing it away at full stretch.
A groan rolled through the Arsenal end.
"Again," Francesco shouted, clapping his hands. "Again."
West Ham regrouped, but something had shifted.
Their midfield block was starting to stretch.
Payet tracked back more reluctantly now, saving energy for counters. Lanzini found himself chasing shadows as Arsenal's triangles grew tighter, faster.
Then came the moment.
23rd minute.
It started innocuously enough.
Kanté intercepted a loose pass from Obiang, nicking the ball cleanly before turning instantly forward. No hesitation. No extra touch.
He found Xhaka.
Xhaka took one touch, head up, surveying the pitch like a chessboard. Obiang stepped toward him that half a second too late.
He played it left to Alexis.
Alexis drove forward, dragging Reid toward him. Ogbonna shifted across. Collins hesitated.
That hesitation was fatal.
Özil ghosted into the space just outside the box, completely unmarked.
Alexis saw him.
The pass was perfect that slid across the turf with just enough weight to bypass Noble's outstretched leg.
Özil didn't break stride.
One touch to set.
One touch to finish.
The ball curled past Randolph's dive and kissed the inside of the net.
Goal.
For a split second, the stadium went silent.
Then the Arsenal end erupted.
Özil wheeled away, arms raised slightly, expression calm but eyes bright. Alexis was on him instantly, grabbing his head, shouting something unintelligible into his ear.
Francesco jogged over, smiling, pointing at Ozil. "That's it. That's it."
The goal changed everything.
West Ham pushed forward with more urgency now, Noble gesturing aggressively, trying to rally his midfield. Payet drifted wider, attempting to isolate Bellerín.
But Arsenal stayed composed.
Van Dijk dominated another aerial duel, rising above Fletcher with ease. Koscielny swept up the loose ball, calm as ever.
Arsenal countered.
Francesco found space between the lines again, receiving from Ozil, spinning away from pressure. He slipped a pass wide to Walcott, who crossed early, but Collins managed to clear.
West Ham were wobbling.
At the 30-minute mark, Ogbonna went through the back of Francesco as he tried to hold the ball up. The referee blew immediately.
Francesco picked himself up, brushing grass from his socks, locking eyes with Ogbonna.
Nothing said.
Everything understood.
Xhaka stood over the free kick, but Arsenal opted to recycle rather than cross. Control over chaos.
Then came the second blow.
34th minute.
Özil dropped deep, drawing Noble out. Kanté surged past him, dragging Obiang away.
Suddenly, space opened in the middle.
Francesco felt it before he saw it.
He peeled off Collins' shoulder, timing his movement perfectly as Ozil slipped the ball through the narrowest of gaps.
For a moment, everything slowed.
Francesco took one touch inside the box, felt Reid lunging from behind, Ogbonna scrambling across.
He struck it low with his left.
Randolph reacted, but too late.
The ball skipped beneath his hand and nestled into the corner.
2–0.
Francesco didn't sprint away. He didn't slide.
He stood still for half a second, fists clenched, breathing deep.
Then his teammates were on him.
Alexis crashed into him from the side. Walcott wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Ozil arrived last, smiling softly.
The Arsenal fans sang his name.
Francesco raised one hand, acknowledging them, then pointed back toward the center circle.
Focus.
West Ham looked shaken now.
Their structure loosened. Passes became rushed. Noble barked louder. Payet tried to force things, attempting a risky dribble that Kanté shut down effortlessly.
Time ticked on.
Arsenal sensed blood.
44th minute.
Another attack built patiently.
Xhaka received deep, under pressure, but instead of playing safe, he clipped a sharp pass forward into Alexis' path.
Alexis took it on the turn, cutting inside, drawing two defenders.
Özil overlapped centrally, dragging Noble away.
That left space.
Alexis slipped the ball back to Xhaka, who had continued his run.
Without hesitation, Xhaka threaded a through ball back into the box.
Alexis had already gone.
He met it first time, smashing it past Randolph from close range.
3–0.
Alexis roared, sliding toward the corner flag, fists pumping. The Arsenal bench exploded. Wenger allowed himself the faintest smile.
Francesco jogged over, grabbing Alexis by the collar. "Finish it," he said firmly.
Alexis nodded, eyes blazing. "We will."
West Ham were reeling now.
The referee glanced at his watch as the clock crept past forty-five.
Moments later, the whistle blew.
Half-time.
The players turned toward the tunnel.
Arsenal walked off composed, dominant, united.
The tunnel swallowed them whole.
Noise from the stadium dulled into a distant, muffled roar as concrete walls closed in around the players. Boots scuffed against the floor. Steam rose faintly from shoulders and backs as adrenaline mixed with cold air.
Francesco walked near the front, jaw set, eyes forward. Three–nil up away from home, and yet there was no looseness in his stride. No smiles lingering. Only purpose.
West Ham's players passed them going the opposite direction. Noble didn't look over this time. Payet shook his head, lips pressed thin. Ogbonna stared straight ahead, frustration written into the tension of his shoulders.
Inside the away dressing room, the door shut behind Arsenal with a heavy thud.
The space felt smaller now. Warmer. The smell of sweat, grass, liniment, and damp fabric hung thick in the air. Players dropped onto benches, some reaching for water bottles immediately, others leaning forward with elbows on knees, breathing measured.
Francesco sat down slowly, hands resting on his thighs. He rolled his neck once, then again, feeling the tightness ease. Across from him, Alexis paced back and forth, still buzzing, eyes sharp, replaying moments in his head.
Özil sat quietly, unlacing one boot, calm as ever. Kanté stood, stretching his calves against the bench, barely breathing hard. Xhaka wiped his face with a towel, eyes flicking toward the tactics board already waiting.
Wenger entered last.
No rush.
No raised voice.
Just presence.
The room stood instinctively, then sat again at his gesture.
Wenger looked around them, letting the moment breathe. Three–nil. Away. London Stadium. He knew how dangerous complacency could be. He had lived it enough times to recognize the faintest trace before it became fatal.
"Très bien," he said finally. "Very good."
A pause.
"But this match is not finished."
No one spoke.
He stepped toward the board, tapping it lightly with a marker.
"West Ham will change," Wenger continued. "They have no choice."
He glanced at Francesco briefly, then at Van Dijk, then at Xhaka.
"They will become more direct. More aggressive. Long balls. Second balls. Set pieces."
He drew a quick arrow forward on the board.
"They will try to turn this into chaos."
He turned back to the players.
"We do not follow them there."
Francesco nodded slightly.
"We stay compact," Wenger said. "We stay intelligent. We press with timing, not emotion."
He pointed toward the midfield.
"N'Golo. Granit. Control the first ten minutes."
Kanté nodded once. Xhaka murmured, "Yes, boss."
"Mesut," Wenger said, softer. "Find space when they push. You will have it."
Özil looked up, smiling faintly. "Always."
"Alexis," Wenger added. "Choose your moments. Do not force."
Alexis stopped pacing. Met Wenger's eyes. "Okay."
"And Francesco," Wenger finished, voice steady. "You continue to lead. But you listen to your body."
Francesco met his gaze. Understood what was being said without it being said out loud.
"Yes," he replied.
Wenger let silence settle again.
"This is how titles are won," he said quietly. "Not with the first half. With the second."
He stepped back.
"Go."
The room stirred.
Players stood, pulling on shirts again, tightening boots, tapping shin pads into place. Focus returned like a physical thing, heavy and shared.
As they lined up in the tunnel once more, the atmosphere outside felt different. West Ham's crowd was louder now, angrier, desperate to see some kind of response.
Francesco glanced once toward the pitch as the doors opened.
Finish it properly.
The second half began with West Ham pushing immediately, as Wenger had predicted.
The ball was launched long from kick-off, not played neatly through midfield but sent straight toward Fletcher's area. Van Dijk rose early, timing his jump perfectly, heading it away with authority. Koscielny swept up behind him, calm as ever.
Arsenal didn't drop.
They pressed.
Hard.
Kanté snapped into a challenge within seconds, forcing Lanzini backward. Xhaka stepped up, cutting out a rushed pass, turning play instantly back toward West Ham's half.
Özil floated into space, demanding the ball. He received it, pivoted, and slipped it wide to Bellerín, who was already charging down the flank.
The message was clear.
Three goals did not mean retreat.
West Ham tried to raise the tempo, pushing bodies forward, but every movement was met with red shirts stepping in, intercepting, disrupting.
Payet drifted inside, trying to create something out of nothing, but Xhaka stayed tight, using his body intelligently, forcing him away from danger.
Francesco remained central, constantly checking his shoulders, offering angles, pulling defenders with him even when he didn't expect the ball.
At the 49th minute, Alexis nearly added another, cutting inside from the left and curling a shot just wide of the far post. Randolph watched it pass, relieved.
The crowd groaned.
Arsenal didn't slow.
Five minutes later, they struck again.
54th minute.
It began deep.
Van Dijk played a simple pass into Kanté, who turned away from pressure effortlessly, gliding past Noble as if he wasn't there. Kanté carried the ball forward, drawing Obiang toward him.
He slipped it left to Xhaka.
Xhaka didn't hold it.
One touch. Head up.
Alexis had already started his run, bursting between Reid and Ogbonna, exploiting the space that had opened as West Ham pushed higher.
The pass split them cleanly.
Alexis met it in stride, took one touch to steady himself, and fired low across Randolph.
The net rippled.
4–0.
Alexis wheeled away, screaming toward the away end, fists clenched, veins standing out in his neck. He had his brace.
Francesco jogged over, pulling him into a brief embrace, then pushing him gently away with a grin.
"Now," he said quietly. "Now we're done."
Alexis laughed, breathless, nodding.
West Ham's resistance cracked visibly after that.
Heads dropped. Hands went to hips. Noble stood near the center circle, hands on his knees, staring at the grass for a long moment before clapping his hands sharply, trying to rally what remained.
But Arsenal were already thinking bigger.
On the touchline, Wenger glanced at his watch.
Then at the bench.
Then back at Francesco.
62nd minute.
The fourth official held up the board.
Three changes.
The stadium buzzed with curiosity.
Francesco looked over, recognizing the numbers immediately.
He exhaled slowly.
Van Dijk saw it too. Walcott as well.
They jogged toward the touchline together.
Giroud stood ready, bouncing lightly on his toes. Per Mertesacker adjusted his captain's posture instinctively, tall and composed. Gnabry looked eager, eyes wide, soaking in the moment.
As Francesco reached the line, Wenger stepped closer.
"Well done," he said quietly.
Francesco nodded. "Thank you."
He peeled the captain's armband from his arm and turned toward Mertesacker.
Per accepted it with both hands, slipping it on with a solemn nod.
"I've got it," Per said simply.
"I know," Francesco replied.
They shared a brief look. Trust. Respect.
The changes were made.
Francesco, Van Dijk, and Walcott left the pitch to a strong applause from the traveling Arsenal fans. Francesco raised one hand in acknowledgment, face calm, professional, before disappearing down the tunnel.
On came Giroud to lead the line, offering strength and presence. Mertesacker slotted into defense alongside Koscielny, experience reinforcing composure. Gnabry took Walcott's place on the right, youthful energy ready to exploit tired legs.
West Ham responded quickly.
Bilić made his own changes.
Fletcher came off, replaced by Andy Carroll, a clear signal of intent. Collins was withdrawn for Arbeloa, shuffling the back line to cope with Arsenal's pace and movement.
Long balls followed almost immediately.
Carroll became the target.
But Arsenal were ready.
Mertesacker stepped in early, using his height and positioning to win the first aerial duel cleanly. Koscielny collected the second ball calmly, moving it wide to Monreal.
Giroud dropped deep, linking play intelligently, holding off defenders, allowing Arsenal to breathe and reset when necessary.
The rhythm changed slightly, but Arsenal's control remained absolute.
Gnabry injected energy down the right, taking on Arbeloa twice in quick succession, forcing him backward, drawing cheers from the away end.
Özil continued to drift, unbothered, threading passes that kept West Ham chasing shadows.
The match settled into a controlled procession.
Arsenal pressed when necessary. Retreated when smart. Passed with patience.
Mertesacker organized from the back, voice carrying, arms pointing, structure maintained.
West Ham tried to find pride, moments of resistance, but every surge met red discipline.
Francesco watched from the bench now, towel around his neck, eyes never leaving the pitch. He leaned forward slightly when Arsenal attacked, relaxed when they recycled possession.
Francesco watched the clock tick forward from the bench, legs stretched out, boots still on, towel resting loosely around his neck. The rhythm of the match had settled into something almost hypnotic now with Arsenal moving the ball with assurance, West Ham chasing shadows, the crowd oscillating between restless noise and resigned silence.
The game wasn't frantic anymore. It was controlled. Managed. The kind of match that spoke of authority rather than hunger.
On the pitch, Giroud began to impose himself properly.
He wasn't Francesco as he wasn't built on movement and timing in the same way, but he offered something else entirely. Weight. Presence. A focal point that allowed Arsenal to breathe when West Ham pushed numbers forward.
At the 68th minute, he rolled Ogbonna with his back to goal, laying the ball off to Özil with a cushioned touch that drew a murmur of appreciation from the Arsenal end. Özil slipped it wide to Gnabry, whose first touch was bold, positive, fearless.
The youngster took on Arbeloa again.
This time he beat him.
A quick shift of the hips. A burst of acceleration. Arbeloa lunged, missed, and suddenly Gnabry was in space, head up, options everywhere.
Giroud peeled toward the near post instinctively.
The move felt inevitable.
72nd minute.
Gnabry slowed just enough to draw the defender, then whipped in a low, driven cross with his right foot with hard, flat, viciously accurate.
Giroud met it with commitment.
One step. One slide.
Contact.
The ball thudded into the net before Randolph could even set his feet.
5–0.
The away end exploded again, louder than before, voices cracking, arms thrown skyward. Giroud leapt up from the turf, fists pumping, roaring toward the corner flag. Gnabry chased him down, jumping onto his back, laughing uncontrollably.
On the bench, Francesco clapped steadily, a smile finally breaking through the concentration. He nodded once toward Wenger, who returned it with a subtle, satisfied glance.
The goal felt like confirmation.
Not just of dominance, but of depth. Of trust. Of a team that didn't lose quality when changes were made.
West Ham looked broken now.
Bilić stood on the touchline, hands in his coat pockets, jaw clenched, eyes distant. Noble continued to shout, to organize, but the sharpness was gone. The belief had drained.
Still, pride demanded something.
At the 78th minute, Payet found a pocket of space near the left channel. For the first time in a while, Arsenal hesitated with just a fraction. Payet took advantage immediately, curling a wicked ball toward the penalty area.
Carroll rose.
The crowd surged forward as one, breath held.
The header came clean, powerful, destined for the corner.
Mertesacker was there.
Always there.
He stepped across Carroll's line at the last possible moment, body square, legs planted, and blocked it with his thigh, absorbing the impact like a wall.
The ball ricocheted away.
A roar of frustration from the home crowd followed instantly by a chant from the Arsenal supporters, singing Per's name with affection and gratitude.
Mertesacker turned, raised one arm, and pointed outward, reorganizing his line without emotion. Job done.
From the bench, Francesco exhaled slowly.
That was it. That was the moment West Ham needed and lost.
The final blow came five minutes later.
85th minute.
Kanté intercepted another desperate West Ham pass near the halfway line, his reading of the game impeccable even now, even with the match long decided. He didn't slow. Didn't dwell.
He drove forward.
Alexis saw it immediately.
He began his run before Kanté even looked up.
The pass came perfectly weighted, threading through exhausted legs, splitting defenders who could no longer react quickly enough.
Alexis burst into the box.
Randolph rushed out.
Alexis stayed calm.
One touch. Then another.
He lifted it delicately over the keeper's outstretched arm.
The ball dropped.
Net.
6–0.
Hat-trick.
Alexis slid on his knees toward the corner, screaming, pounding the turf, eyes wild with emotion. His teammates swarmed him with Özil smiling, Kanté hugging him tightly, Giroud arriving last with a grin that said everything.
The Arsenal bench rose as one.
Francesco stood too, applauding, nodding, pride swelling in his chest. He caught Alexis' eye from across the pitch.
Alexis pointed at him.
Francesco nodded back.
That was leadership too, knowing when to step aside and still be present.
The remainder of the match played out almost gently.
West Ham, battered but not spiteful, moved the ball with a touch more care now, trying simply to see the game out with dignity. Arsenal, respectful and disciplined, maintained shape, recycled possession, avoided unnecessary risk.
The crowd thinned as minutes ticked away.
The chants softened.
The stadium felt hollow.
When the referee finally checked his watch and blew for full time, the sound carried strangely with sharp, definitive, almost merciful.
6–0.
At London Stadium.
Players shook hands.
Some West Ham players dropped to their haunches, staring at nothing. Others walked straight toward the tunnel, shoulders slumped, expressions blank.
Arsenal players gathered near the center circle.
Mertesacker clapped his hands, pulling them together, saying a few words that didn't need to be loud to carry weight as head nodded and shoulder straightened.
________________________________________________
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: 27
Goal: 43
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