If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Hodgson, standing at the edge of his technical area, finally allowed himself to smile — the kind of deep, quiet smile that only comes after years of waiting for a night like this. His assistants patted his back; the England fans were chanting his name.
The sound of celebration still thundered across the stadium like a living heartbeat when a tap came to Francesco's shoulder. He turned, half-expecting another jubilant teammate or a coach's congratulatory pat, but instead found a UEFA official standing there — blue lanyard, headset, clipboard in hand.
"Francesco Lee," the man said over the roar, his accent clipped but polite. "You've been selected for the official post-match interview. Man of the Match as well — congratulations."
For a second, Francesco just blinked — the words cutting through the adrenaline haze like a distant bell coming into focus.
Man of the Match.
His chest still heaved from the running, sweat slick on his temples, but when he looked past the official toward the tunnel and saw a cameraman already waiting, the gravity of it hit him. A grin — small at first, then genuine — cracked across his face.
"Yeah," he said, still catching his breath. "Alright. Let's do it."
The UEFA man nodded briskly and gestured for him to follow. Francesco jogged beside him, the studs of his boots clicking softly against the pitchside matting as they crossed the edge of the technical area. Around them, the chaos of victory continued — England fans still chanting his name, flags waving, players embracing in scattered clusters across the grass.
Kane was laughing with Vardy near the corner flag. Dier was clapping the fans, arms raised high. Even Joe Hart was doing a lap of appreciation, the English end singing his name to the beat of a thousand clapping hands.
Francesco took one last look at it all — the lights, the noise, the blur of white and red joy — before he stepped toward the sideline where the small interview area had been set up.
A single camera.
The Sky Sports mic.
And Geoff Shreeves waiting, his trademark smile half-hidden by the glow of the floodlights.
"Francesco," Geoff greeted as the player approached, extending a hand that Francesco shook firmly. "Congratulations — an incredible performance tonight. One goal, one assist, and England through to the semi-finals. You've also just been named Man of the Match."
A staffer handed Francesco the black-and-gold MOTM plaque, its glossy surface reflecting the lights around them. He turned it in his hand for a second — the weight of it both literal and symbolic — before glancing back toward the camera, his breath still unsteady but his eyes bright.
"Cheers, Geoff," he said with a grin, the faint rasp in his voice betraying just how hard he'd worked. "It's a special night. A really special night."
Geoff nodded, stepping a little closer as the camera zoomed in. "Let's start from the top. That was a fierce, emotional quarter-final — Belgium are one of the toughest sides in Europe. How did it feel out there tonight?"
Francesco let out a small breath, the kind that comes from a mixture of exhaustion and reflection. "Tough," he admitted. "From the first minute, it felt like a final. Every duel, every run — they made us fight for it. Belgium have world-class players everywhere you look. But I think tonight was about discipline, about belief. We said before the game we'd have to suffer a bit — and we did. But we also believed in what we could do with the ball."
"You certainly showed that," Geoff said. "That first goal — your assist for Harry Kane — absolutely clinical. Walk us through it from your perspective."
Francesco's eyes flickered as he replayed the moment in his mind — the pass, the movement, the sound of the crowd breaking as the ball hit the net. "Yeah, it happened quick," he began, gesturing lightly with one hand as if sketching the play in the air. "Hendo played it into Wayne, and I saw the gap open just behind their left-back. I knew Harry would be on his toes — he always is — so I just tried to slide it through before Meunier could close. Harry's finish was… world-class. He didn't even give Courtois a chance. It's what he does."
Geoff smiled. "And your reaction — you and Kane celebrating together — there's clearly a connection there."
Francesco chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Yeah, mate, that's years of playing together, isn't it? We know each other's runs, each other's habits. I told him before the game, 'You get free, I'll find you.' And we did exactly that. That's England — teamwork. It's not just one or two of us. It's everyone pulling the same way."
The interviewer nodded approvingly, then leaned slightly forward. "Now, that goal gave England the edge, but you weren't done yet. You played a huge part in the second half — the energy, the tracking back, setting the tempo — and then the team killed it off with that Vardy goal. When that went in, 3–1 up, what was going through your head?"
Francesco exhaled and laughed, glancing briefly toward where the England fans still sang in waves. "Honestly? Relief. Pure relief. You know how it is — 2–1, you're still on the edge, anything can happen. But when Jamie scored that third… it felt like the world stopped for a second. It was just noise — one massive wall of noise. You don't think, you just feel it. That's football. That's why we play."
The camera panned slightly as Geoff continued, his tone softening. "You were substituted not long after that, replaced by Cahill to shore things up defensively. When you came off, the fans gave you a standing ovation. What did that moment mean to you?"
Francesco looked down for a brief moment, his smile gentler now — touched by the kind of emotion that lives beyond adrenaline. "It meant everything," he said quietly. "You dream of moments like that — hearing the fans sing, knowing you've given everything. When the boss called me off, I knew it was the right move — we needed to protect the lead — but walking off and seeing people on their feet… that hit me. That's not just applause. That's connection. That's why I'll never forget tonight."
Behind them, the stadium lights shimmered like scattered diamonds, the echo of "Three Lions" still rolling through the terraces. Geoff allowed the silence to breathe for a moment before asking the next question, his voice warm.
"You've been one of the breakout stars of this tournament, Francesco — and tonight, you've arguably delivered your best performance in an England shirt. What's driving you right now? What's behind this form?"
Francesco hesitated — not out of uncertainty, but because he was trying to find the right words. "I think it's hunger," he said finally. "You go through your career waiting for moments like these — to prove yourself on the biggest stage. And when it comes, you just can't let it pass. I've got incredible teammates around me, a manager who trusts me, and a country behind us. That's all the fuel I need."
He smiled faintly, adding, "And maybe a bit of stubbornness too. People doubted whether we could beat teams like Belgium. I think we answered that tonight."
Geoff laughed softly. "You certainly did. Now, one more — you've got a semi-final coming up. You've just beaten one of the best squads in the world. What's the mindset heading into the next round?"
Francesco didn't hesitate. His eyes sharpened, the grin returning with quiet fire. "Same as always," he said. "Respect everyone, fear no one. We'll recover, we'll prepare, and we'll be ready. We're not here just to make up the numbers. We want to win this thing."
The air still vibrated with the pulse of celebration when Geoff adjusted his earpiece, catching a cue from the production team. The cameraman gave a small nod — they were rolling into one last segment. Geoff leaned slightly closer, his tone shifting into that familiar blend of curiosity and theatre that only seasoned broadcasters managed so effortlessly.
"Now, Francesco," he began, voice carrying over the muffled background of chanting fans. "Before we let you go — there's one last thing everyone at home will want to know."
Francesco tilted his head, still catching his breath, his hair damp with sweat under the floodlights.
"In just about two hours," Geoff continued, smiling, "the other quarter-final kicks off — Portugal versus Poland. The winner faces you lot in the semi-finals. So tell me — who would you prefer to meet? Lewandowski and Poland, or Cristiano Ronaldo and Portugal?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, and the nearby camera lights seemed to burn brighter. It wasn't just idle speculation — this was the kind of question that got replayed across highlight shows, dissected by pundits, quoted on headlines.
Francesco froze for a heartbeat, his expression thoughtful. Behind him, the jubilant roar of the England fans rolled and receded like the tide. He rubbed the back of his neck with a small grin, but his eyes were sharper now — not dodging the question, just weighing it carefully.
"Hmm," he murmured, glancing toward the pitch where his teammates were still soaking up the applause. "That's a tough one, Geoff."
He paused again, and the camera caught the subtle change — the flicker in his expression that said he wasn't about to give a safe, polite answer. The kind of flicker that hinted at something deeper — ambition, hunger, a quiet fire.
Then he looked back at Geoff, his tone measured but certain.
"Portugal," he said.
It wasn't a boast — it was calm, deliberate, the kind of answer that carried its own weight.
Geoff raised his brows, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Portugal? That's an interesting choice. Why's that?"
Francesco's grin returned, but there was a glint in his eyes now — not arrogance, but challenge. "No disrespect to Poland," he began, his voice steady, respectful. "Lewandowski's one of the best strikers in the world — I've got nothing but admiration for him. But…"
He let the word linger, the pause intentional.
"…Portugal have Cristiano Ronaldo. And if you want to be the best, you've got to beat the best."
The interviewer's smile widened, sensing the electricity in the words. The camera caught it too — the faint lift of Francesco's chin, the subtle edge of pride behind his voice.
Francesco went on, his words slow, deliberate, as though each one was being drawn from something personal, something deeply rooted. "Ronaldo's someone I grew up watching. He's been at the top for more than a decade — Champions Leagues, Ballon d'Ors, goals everywhere he's gone. He's a legend. But this is football — legends don't last forever. Sometimes, the new generation has to step up. So yeah…"
He smiled faintly, eyes glinting beneath the lights. "…I want Portugal. I want to meet him, face to face, on that pitch — and I want to beat him."
For a moment, even Geoff seemed to lose his polished broadcaster composure. His eyebrows rose, and the faintest flicker of admiration passed through his expression. It was rare, after all, to hear a young player say something like that — not out of arrogance, but conviction.
"That's quite a statement," Geoff said, chuckling under his breath. "So you're saying you want to go head-to-head with Cristiano Ronaldo?"
Francesco nodded once, without hesitation. "Absolutely. If you want to win something like the Euros, you can't hope to avoid players like him — you have to face them. You have to look them in the eye and say, 'Your time was great. Now it's ours.'"
There was something raw in the way he said it — no bravado, just truth. A quiet, fearless honesty that carried more weight than any headline could capture.
Geoff grinned, shaking his head. "You do realize those words might just end up on Portuguese dressing room walls by tomorrow morning, right?"
Francesco laughed, his voice rough with fatigue and joy. "That's alright," he said, shrugging. "If it motivates them, even better. Because it'll motivate us too."
The laughter between them felt genuine, cutting through the weight of the moment. Geoff glanced briefly off-camera, clearly getting another cue in his ear, but he wasn't quite ready to end it yet.
"One last thing, Francesco — tonight you've scored, assisted, and helped lead England to their first Euro semi-final in years. You've talked about belief, teamwork, hunger — and now about facing Ronaldo. What would it mean to you personally, to take England all the way? To lift that trophy?"
The question hit a quieter chord. Francesco's gaze shifted briefly toward the England fans — thousands still singing "Don't Look Back in Anger," scarves held aloft, a sea of white and red glowing under the floodlights.
He exhaled slowly.
"Everything," he said simply. "Everything I've worked for, every sacrifice — it's for moments like this. Playing for England isn't just football, it's pride. It's family. It's all those kids out there dreaming, like I did, kicking a ball against a wall, thinking maybe one day…" He trailed off, eyes softening. "If we can bring that trophy home, it's not just for us. It's for everyone who believed we could."
For a brief second, the crowd noise faded — or maybe it was just that Francesco wasn't hearing it anymore. The camera caught the look in his eyes — the mix of exhaustion and fire, of dream and duty.
Geoff let the moment breathe, then nodded with a smile that was more admiration than journalistic poise. "Well, Francesco, you've given everything tonight — on and off the pitch. Congratulations again, Man of the Match. We'll see you in the semi-finals."
Francesco smiled, holding up the MOTM plaque for the camera — the black and gold reflecting the lights like a medal of battle. "Thanks, Geoff. Appreciate it."
The interview ended, the camera light clicked off, and suddenly the world seemed to slow. The adrenaline that had carried him for ninety minutes began to ebb, leaving behind that familiar post-match exhaustion — the ache in his legs, the dryness in his throat, the pulse still thudding somewhere in his ribs.
The UEFA staffer stepped in again, guiding him toward the tunnel as production assistants packed away cables and lights. A couple of English fans behind the barrier shouted his name, waving flags and shirts for signatures. Francesco smiled, signed a few on his way, and gave a small wave before disappearing down the tunnel.
Inside, the air was cooler — damp with the smell of turf and sweat and liniment. Voices echoed through the corridor, laughter and shouts bouncing off the concrete. Somewhere down the hall, Vardy was singing an off-key version of "Sweet Caroline," his voice echoing like a victory anthem. Rooney's booming laugh followed a few seconds later.
Francesco slowed his walk, running a hand through his hair, the MOTM plaque still under his arm. He could still feel the vibrations of the stadium above him, as though the entire structure hummed with pride.
"Portugal…" he murmured again under his breath, the word almost to himself this time. The thought of it — facing Ronaldo, testing himself against one of the game's immortals — stirred something deep inside him. A flicker of anticipation.
Not fear. Never fear.
He reached the dressing room just as the door swung open, the sound inside explosive — music blaring, bottles of water sprayed into the air, shirts flying. Dier spotted him first and shouted, "There he is! The man of the match!"
The room erupted. Applause, cheers, backslaps. Kane threw an arm around him, pulling him into a brief, rough embrace.
"You were class tonight, mate," Kane said, grinning. "Proper class."
"Couldn't have done it without the lads," Francesco replied, still smiling, voice hoarse but full of warmth. "That was everyone out there."
"Yeah, but you lit the spark," Rooney added from across the room, pointing with a half-empty bottle of Lucozade. "You keep playing like that, and they'll start naming the bloody tournament after you."
Laughter erupted again, lighthearted but charged with pride.
Hodgson, standing off to one side, watched them with that familiar mix of paternal affection and quiet restraint. When Francesco caught his gaze, the old manager simply nodded once, slow and meaningful.
"Enjoy this," Hodgson said softly when Francesco passed by him. "You've earned it. But remember — the real work starts now."
Francesco met his eyes and nodded. "I know, boss."
The night wore on in a blur of celebration — the roar of joy in the locker room, the clatter of boots and ice buckets, the press interviews echoing through the hallway. But beneath it all, Francesco's thoughts kept circling back to one image — the Portuguese flag, the gleam of that number 7 shirt, the silhouette of Ronaldo standing over a free-kick.
He could almost hear the commentary already.
England versus Portugal. Francesco Lee versus Cristiano Ronaldo.
The kind of matchup that history will remember.
Then they head to the shower room, as the steam rose in lazy curls across the dressing room, fogging the mirrors and softening the fluorescent lights until the whole place glowed in a hazy warmth. The sound of running water filled the space, mingling with the fading laughter and the occasional shout of someone tossing a towel or snapping another with a grin.
Francesco stood under one of the showers, head tilted back, water cascading down over his face, his hair plastered to his forehead. The first shock of cold had long passed — now it was just soothing warmth, the kind that sank deep into his muscles after ninety minutes of chasing glory. Every droplet felt earned.
He exhaled slowly, eyes closing. For the first time since stepping off the pitch, he allowed himself a moment of silence — not the roaring kind, not the celebratory chaos, just the quiet that came after giving everything.
The noise of his teammates blurred into a comforting hum behind him. Rooney and Vardy were arguing over who had run more kilometers, Stones was singing something unintelligible but clearly heartfelt, and Sterling's laughter bounced off the tiled walls. It was a chorus of exhaustion and joy.
"Oi, Lee!" someone called from across the showers — probably Vardy again. "Save some hot water for the rest of us, superstar!"
Francesco laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "You need cold water, mate — maybe it'll cool that ego down."
That earned another round of laughter, echoing loud enough to rival the earlier chants of fans. It wasn't mockery; it was camaraderie — the kind that only came from shared battle.
He turned the tap off finally, water dripping from his hair as he reached for a towel. His reflection in the mirror was a blur through the steam — flushed cheeks, tired eyes, a faint bruise along his collarbone. He looked like a man who had gone to war and come back victorious, but not untouched.
"Oi, Francesco," Kane said as he passed, towel slung over his shoulder, "what a night, eh?"
Francesco nodded, smiling softly. "Yeah… feels surreal. Like a dream you don't want to wake up from."
Kane chuckled. "Let's hope the dream keeps going — all the way to the final."
By the time they'd all showered and dressed, the room had settled into that mellow post-match energy — the kind that came when the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a deep, glowing fatigue. Jerseys were tossed into laundry bins, boots stuffed into bags, and the air smelled faintly of liniment and shampoo.
Francesco slipped into his England tracksuit, zipped up his jacket, and sat on the bench for a moment, tying his sneakers. Around him, the banter rolled on — small jokes, bits of analysis, Rooney imitating Hodgson's pre-match speech for laughs. Even the gaffer chuckled quietly when he caught it.
When the team finally began to file out, Hodgson gathered them briefly by the door. His voice was low but clear, steady despite the noise still spilling from the corridor outside.
"Enjoy tonight, lads," he said. "You've earned it. But don't lose focus. We've made history getting here — now it's time to make something even bigger."
A murmur of agreement went around. The respect for him was mutual — he wasn't a flashy manager, but he knew how to steady a ship.
As they stepped out toward the team bus, the corridor outside was lined with staff and security, a few reporters calling out for final comments, though Hodgson waved them off politely. Cameras flashed once or twice, but for the most part, it was just the soft shuffle of trainers against concrete, the low hum of conversation, and the rhythmic thud of gear bags against shoulders.
Outside, the night air hit them — cool and damp, the kind that carried the faint scent of cut grass and fireworks from the crowd. The stadium lights still glowed behind them, silhouetting the structure like a cathedral of modern sport.
Francesco paused briefly at the top of the bus steps, glancing back. For a moment, he let himself take it all in — the lights, the noise, the memory of the pitch. Then he stepped inside.
The bus was warm, the seats reclined and lined in deep navy fabric. The familiar low hum of the engine started beneath them as the doors closed. Francesco slid into a seat beside Kane, his bag tucked beneath his feet, and leaned his head briefly against the cool window.
The roads outside were lined with fans waving flags and shouting as the bus rolled past. A few slapped their palms against the sides, chanting "It's coming home!" with such conviction it made even the exhausted players grin.
Vardy stood up halfway down the aisle, holding a half-empty water bottle like a microphone. "Listen to that!" he shouted. "They actually believe it now!"
Sterling groaned, throwing a crumpled towel at him. "Sit down before you fall over, mate."
The laughter came again, lighter this time. Even Hodgson smiled from his seat near the front, talking quietly with his assistant.
It was then, somewhere between the laughter and the hum of the engine, that Francesco leaned forward, his voice breaking through the chatter.
"How about after we eat," he said, "we watch the Poland versus Portugal match? See who we're up against in the semis."
A few heads turned toward him. Kane glanced over his shoulder, curious. Rooney, two rows back, immediately grinned.
"Good idea," Rooney said, his tone carrying that warm, gravelly authority only he could manage. "We'll see what we're dealing with next. Never hurts to get an early look at the opposition."
Hodgson turned slightly in his seat, catching the drift of the conversation. "Actually," he said with a faint smile, "I agree with that. It's a smart call, Francesco. No harm in watching — but remember, we focus on ourselves first."
Francesco nodded. "Of course, boss. Just curiosity… and maybe a bit of motivation."
The gaffer's smile deepened, eyes softening with a quiet pride. "Good attitude. You've got an old head on young shoulders, son."
That drew a few approving murmurs from the squad. Even Rooney, who had seen it all, nodded slightly in agreement.
As the bus wound its way through the night streets, the conversation shifted to predictions.
"Poland will do 'em," said Stones confidently. "Lewandowski's due a big game."
"Portugal's too strong," countered Walker from the back. "Ronaldo's not letting this slip — he'll drag them through if he has to."
"Yeah, but look at Portugal's form," said Henderson. "They've been drawing every game. It's like they're allergic to winning in normal time."
Vardy chuckled. "Then maybe they'll draw again, and we'll have to wait till bloody penalties to find out."
Francesco smiled, listening more than speaking. He liked hearing their takes — the mix of football insight and superstition, optimism and nerves. Deep down, though, he already knew who he wanted. He'd said it to Geoff Shreeves on camera, and he still felt it in his chest like a steady drumbeat. Portugal.
The bus finally pulled into the hotel parking area about forty minutes later — a sleek glass-fronted building shimmering with lights. Security waited by the entrance, guiding them inside swiftly. The moment the automatic doors whooshed open, the scent of polished marble and air conditioning replaced the outside chill.
The lobby was quiet except for the soft hum of late-night activity — a few staff behind the desk, journalists waiting discreetly with cameras lowered, and a handful of fans who clapped softly as the team walked past.
Francesco caught a glimpse of himself in one of the glass walls — clean, hair still slightly damp, eyes tired but alive.
The lift ride up to the top floors was filled with low murmurs and yawns. Rooney and Kane were already talking about dinner, Henderson arguing about who owed who from the pre-tournament card games, and Vardy trying to convince Sterling that his goal celebration was "scientifically proven" to give luck.
When they reached the team suite, the aroma of late-night food filled the air — roast chicken, pasta, steamed vegetables, and fruit platters laid out across a long buffet table. Francesco's stomach growled instantly.
"Right, lads," Hodgson said, standing near the door. "Eat well, hydrate, and then we'll meet in the lounge room in thirty minutes to watch the match. Let's keep it relaxed — this isn't analysis, just observation."
A chorus of "yes, boss" followed.
Francesco filled his plate modestly — grilled chicken, a small serving of pasta, and a few slices of pineapple. He sat beside Rooney, who was already halfway through his meal, fork scraping against the plate.
"Still can't believe how much you've come on," Rooney said between bites, glancing up at him. "Feels like yesterday you were the young lad coming in, all nervous. Now look at you — MOTM, leading the line, talking about taking on Ronaldo."
Francesco smiled, a little shy under the praise. "Just trying to do my part, Wayne. You've been the one showing me how it's done all these years."
Rooney smirked. "Don't get sentimental on me now, lad. I'm not dead yet."
That earned a laugh from both of them, easing the weight of the moment.
After dinner, the team gradually migrated to the lounge — a wide, comfortable room with big sofas, low lighting, and a massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. A few staff members set up drinks and light snacks nearby.
When the broadcast flickered on, the stadium atmosphere of the Poland vs Portugal match filled the room. The players leaned back, the fatigue in their bodies now replaced by anticipation.
Francesco took a seat on the carpet near the front, his elbows resting on his knees. He felt that old thrill of watching football — not as a player, but as a fan again.
"Right then," Vardy muttered as the teams lined up, "who's putting bets? Winner gets bragging rights."
"I'll take Portugal," Francesco said immediately, without looking away from the screen.
"Of course you will," Sterling said, rolling his eyes. "You just want to stare at Ronaldo's abs all night."
The room erupted in laughter.
"Jealousy's not a good look, Raheem," Francesco shot back, grinning.
As the match began, the energy in the room shifted between quiet focus and outbursts of commentary — every chance, every tackle met with reactions as if they were the ones on the pitch.
When Lewandowski scored early for Poland, half the room cheered.
"Called it!" Stones shouted, jumping up from his seat. "Poland all day!"
But Portugal equalized through Renato Sanches, and now it was Francesco's turn to smile, that quiet, knowing grin that said he hadn't lost faith.
The game stretched into extra time, tension mounting with every minute. Francesco leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin. He could feel the rhythm of it — the ebb and flow, the tiny tactical shifts.
Rooney glanced over at him. "You're watching him closely, aren't you?"
Francesco didn't deny it. "Yeah. Trying to see what makes him tick. The movement, the timing. He doesn't just score — he appears where it matters."
Rooney nodded, impressed. "That's what separates the greats. You've got that instinct too, you know."
Francesco's lips twitched into a smile. "Still learning. But if we face them… I'll be ready."
When the match finally went to penalties, the room was silent. Even Vardy, who could never keep quiet, folded his arms and watched intently. One by one, the penalties flew in — calm, precise.
Then came Ronaldo's turn. He stepped up, that familiar stance — shoulders square, legs apart, eyes cold as glass. He fired it low and hard into the corner.
Francesco exhaled slowly.
Moments later, Portugal sealed it. The screen flashed Portugal 5–3 Poland (pens).
There was a collective murmur — excitement, tension, awe.
"Portugal it is then," Hodgson said quietly from his seat at the back, his voice thoughtful. "Our semi-final opponent."
Rooney turned to Francesco with a grin. "Well, lad, looks like you're getting your wish."
Francesco's eyes stayed on the screen, watching Ronaldo embrace his teammates. He didn't smile, not fully — not yet. There was respect there, but also a spark of challenge, the same one that had burned in his voice hours earlier on live television.
He finally spoke, voice low but steady. "Good," he said. "That's how it should be."
The others watched him for a moment — not teasing this time, but understanding.
The match ended, and one by one, the players drifted off — some heading to their rooms, others lingering to talk tactics in quiet corners. Francesco stayed behind a while longer, the glow of the TV flickering against his face.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (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, and 2015/2016 Champions League
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: 4
Goal: 8
Assist: 3
MOTM: 4
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9