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Francesco bent forward, hands on his knees, exhaustion finally crashing over him in a wave. He straightened slowly, looking around the stadium, committing the moment to memory.
The whistle echoed longer than it should have.
Not because the referee delayed it, but because everything else seemed to pause around the sound, as if the Allianz Arena itself needed an extra second to accept what had just happened.
Five.
To two.
Arsenal.
In Munich.
Francesco straightened slowly, spine protesting, lungs burning, sweat cooling rapidly against his skin. The roar that had threatened to swallow them for ninety minutes was gone now, replaced by something fractured and uneven isolated whistles, stunned murmurs, the low hum of disbelief rippling through concrete and steel.
He looked around.
Really looked.
Van Dijk stood a few yards away, hands on his head, a grin spreading slowly across his face like he didn't quite trust it yet. Kanté had both hands on his hips, laughing softly to himself, shaking his head as if the numbers on the scoreboard were playing a trick on him. Walcott bent over, hands on knees, then straightened and punched the air once, hard, before exhaling.
Cazorla closed his eyes, lifted his face briefly toward the roof of the stadium, and breathed.
Francesco felt it then the full weight of it.
Not just a win.
A statement carved into one of Europe's loudest, proudest arenas.
He rolled his shoulders once, adjusted the armband automatically, and clapped his hands together.
Sharp.
Clear.
Purposeful.
"Alright," he called, voice hoarse but steady. "Together."
It wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The players instinctively looked toward him. Years of football taught them the moment after the whistle mattered almost as much as what came before it.
"Hands first," Francesco said. "Respect."
He turned toward the Bayern players, already beginning to drift apart as some frustrated, some hollow-eyed, some staring at the turf as if it had betrayed them.
Francesco walked first.
Not rushed.
Not triumphant.
Measured.
Hummels was closest.
The German defender looked up as Francesco approached, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, jaw tight but eyes clear. There was disappointment there, deep and unmistakable, but also honesty.
Francesco extended his hand.
Hummels took it firmly.
"You were ruthless," Hummels said in English, voice low.
Francesco met his gaze. "You kept coming. Respect."
Hummels nodded once, then glanced at the armband. "You lead well."
That landed heavier than any praise shouted in a stadium.
They held the handshake for a second longer than necessary, then released.
Francesco moved down the line.
Martínez. Lewandowski. Vidal still bristling, but he nodded. Thiago offered a tired smile. Alonso clasped Francesco's shoulder briefly, murmuring something in Spanish about control and intelligence.
Behind him, Arsenal followed suit.
Van Dijk shook hands with Lewandowski, exchanging a few quiet words. Kanté bowed his head politely to Neuer, who managed a small, gracious smile despite the scoreline. Walcott clapped Lahm on the back, respect between speedsters clear even in defeat.
It wasn't rushed.
Francesco made sure of that.
This was football as it should be from competition, fury, pressure… and then acknowledgment.
When he reached Hummels again near the halfway line, the German defender hesitated, then tugged at the collar of his shirt.
"Swap?" Hummels asked.
Francesco smiled faintly.
"Yeah."
They turned slightly away from the cameras, practiced hands already lifting shirts over sweat-slicked skin. The air felt colder against Francesco's torso as he pulled on Hummels' red Bayern shirt, the weight of the crest unfamiliar but significant.
Hummels slipped into Francesco's shirt, tugging it down, glancing at the name across the back.
"Frame this one," he said dryly. "Not many leave here with five."
Francesco laughed quietly. "You'll have a story too."
Hummels snorted. "Unfortunately."
They clasped forearms once more before parting.
Francesco took a breath.
Then he turned.
Toward the corner where the sound had never faded.
The away end.
Red and white, packed tight, bouncing now in full release, songs spilling over each other, flags waving wildly. These were the ones who had crossed borders, spent money, lost sleep, believed when belief wasn't easy.
Francesco raised an arm.
Just one.
Come.
The response was immediate.
Xhaka was first this time, barking something over his shoulder to gather the rest. Van Dijk followed, still clutching Hummels' shirt. Walcott jogged up beside Francesco, chest still heaving. Cazorla drifted in quietly, a small smile never leaving his face.
They didn't form a straight line.
They never did.
They moved together in a loose cluster, boots heavy, legs aching, adrenaline still humming beneath exhaustion.
As they crossed the pitch, the chants grew louder, sharper, more personal.
"Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal!"
Then Francesco's name, stretched and sung and shouted until it felt like part of the stadium's architecture.
He stopped a few meters from the boards.
Turned.
And for a moment, he said nothing.
He looked at them.
Really looked.
Faces flushed red from cold and joy. Scarves raised high. Some fans jumping, others crying openly, hands pressed to mouths, eyes shining.
Francesco lifted both hands.
And clapped.
Slow at first.
Measured.
A thank you, not a command.
The players followed instantly.
Van Dijk clapped above his head, roaring something unintelligible. Walcott bounced on his heels, pointing toward the crowd, laughing. Kanté smiled so hard it seemed to surprise even him.
Francesco stepped closer to the boards, placed a hand flat over his heart.
"This," he shouted, voice cracking slightly despite himself, "is for you!"
The noise surged again, rolling down from the upper tiers, defiant and proud and utterly unafraid of where they were.
He stayed there longer than protocol suggested.
Wenger gestured once from the sideline with subtle, understanding. Media would wait.
This mattered more.
He stayed there a little longer than he should have.
Long enough for the noise to crest again. Long enough for the cold to finally seep through the sweat on his skin. Long enough that the moment began to feel fragile, like something that could shatter if he didn't eventually let it go.
When Francesco finally lowered his hands, the clapping faded naturally, not because the fans stopped believing, but because they understood. They always did. A last wave passed between pitch and stand with mutual, unspoken and then he turned away.
That was when he felt it shift.
A presence at his shoulder. Neutral. Official.
"Francesco."
The voice cut cleanly through the noise. Calm, practiced, accented just enough to place it.
He turned to see a UEFA staff member in a dark jacket with the competition crest stitched neatly over the chest, headset wire disappearing behind his collar, lanyard bouncing lightly as he walked.
"We need you for the pitch-side interview," the man said, already angling his body toward the sideline. "You're next."
Francesco nodded once.
"Okay."
No fuss. No hesitation.
He glanced back over his shoulder toward the away end one last time. A few fans caught his eye and lifted scarves higher, shouting his name again, as if to send him off properly.
He tapped the badge on his chest with two fingers.
Then he followed the staff member.
The walk toward the touchline felt longer now.
Not physically as his legs had carried him through worse over the last ninety minutes, but emotionally. The bubble of shared joy began to thin, replaced by something sharper, colder, more exposed.
Because as he moved away from the corner, the sound changed.
The Arsenal chants faded behind him, swallowed by the vastness of the stadium.
And from the other direction.
The boos began.
At first, they were scattered. A few whistles from the lower tier. A handful of voices shouting in German, frustration still raw, anger not yet dulled by time.
Then more joined.
A wave of sound rolling down from the stands where Bayern supporters still sat as many frozen in place, unwilling to leave, unable to look away.
"Buuuuuuuh!"
It wasn't hatred, not really.
It was wounded pride.
It was disbelief looking for somewhere to land.
Francesco felt it hit him square in the chest as he walked, but he didn't flinch. Didn't look up. Didn't raise a hand in response, positive or negative.
He kept his eyes forward.
Boots crunching softly against the turf.
The UEFA staff member leaned in slightly, voice lowered.
"Just ignore it," he said. "They're emotional."
Francesco gave a faint, humorless smile.
"I know," he replied. "So am I."
The boos followed him along the sideline, swelling briefly when the big screens picked him up, then tapering off again as attention drifted.
He didn't rush.
Didn't slow.
He let the noise pass through him like wind.
By the time they reached the designated interview area near the technical zone, the atmosphere shifted again.
Lights.
Equipment.
Focus.
The chaos of the stadium narrowed into a small, artificial island carved out by production cables and metal stands.
The interviewer was already there with a familiar UEFA face, composed, mid-thirties, sharp suit under a heavy coat, microphone resting casually in his hand. A cameraman adjusted the rig, rolling his shoulders, checking angles. Another staff member crouched to tape down a cable against the turf.
They all looked up at once as Francesco approached.
There was a brief pause.
Then the interviewer smiled.
Not the polished, performative smile for the camera.
A real one.
"Quite a night," he said, stepping forward and offering a hand.
Francesco shook it, grip firm despite the fatigue.
"Yeah," he replied. "I think that's one way to put it."
The cameraman chuckled quietly as he adjusted focus.
The interviewer gestured subtly toward the marked spot on the grass.
"Stand here for me," he said. "We'll keep it quick."
A UEFA staffer clipped the microphone to Francesco's collar, fingers efficient, professional.
"You alright?" the interviewer asked softly, just loud enough to be heard.
Francesco exhaled slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "Just… coming down."
The interviewer nodded. He understood that look with the eyes still bright with adrenaline, the body only just realizing it could finally stop running.
The producer's voice crackled through the interviewer's earpiece.
"Thirty seconds," he said, then glanced at Francesco again. "You ready?"
Francesco adjusted the armband once more out of habit.
"Always."
The cameraman raised his thumb.
The red tally light flicked on.
And suddenly, the world shrank to a lens.
The boos in the background were still audible, faint but present, a reminder of where they were. But the interviewer's voice cut cleanly through it, smooth and measured.
"Francesco, congratulations. A remarkable night for Arsenal here in Munich. Five goals away from home against Bayern. When you hear that scoreline out loud, what goes through your mind?"
Francesco took a second.
He didn't rush.
Didn't reach for something rehearsed.
He looked just past the camera, eyes unfocused, still seeing flashes of the match with the runs, the tackles, the goals, the moments where everything balanced on the edge.
"Honestly?" he said. "Pride. Not just in the result, but in how we did it. This place doesn't give you anything. You have to take it. And we did, together."
The interviewer nodded, leaning in slightly.
"Bayern had periods of pressure, especially in the second half. What impressed you most about the way your team handled those moments?"
Francesco's jaw tightened a fraction that not from tension, but from conviction.
"Our discipline," he said. "There were moments when it would've been easy to panic, to drop too deep, to just survive. But we didn't. We stayed brave on the ball. We trusted our structure. And when the chances came, we were ruthless."
A fresh ripple of boos rolled down from the stands behind them, louder this time, triggered perhaps by the word.
Ruthless.
Francesco didn't react.
The interviewer glanced sideways briefly, then continued.
"You wore the armband tonight. In an environment like this, how important is leadership on the pitch?"
Francesco's eyes flicked toward the far end of the stadium, where the away fans still sang, defiant even now.
"It's everything," he said quietly. "Not shouting. Not pointing fingers. It's about presence. About making sure everyone feels connected, especially when the pressure comes. I'm lucky. I play with players who don't hide. Who want the ball. That makes leading easy."
The interviewer smiled slightly.
"You personally were involved throughout from goals, movement, work rate. But we also saw you dropping deep, organizing, talking constantly. Is that something you've grown into?"
Francesco let out a small breath, almost a laugh.
"You don't come here and just think about yourself," he said. "Not if you want to win. Games like this demand everything from physically, mentally. Sometimes that means scoring. Sometimes it means covering space, pulling defenders, helping the team breathe. I'm happy doing any of it."
The interviewer paused, listening to his earpiece, then shifted tone gently.
"There were boos as you walked over here. You're in Munich, after all. Does that affect you at all, or does it add something to the experience?"
Francesco glanced briefly toward the stands behind the camera.
For a moment, his expression softened that not smug, not defiant. Just understanding.
"It's part of it," he said. "If they're booing, it means we did something right. Bayern have incredible supporters. They expect dominance here. Tonight, we took that away. I respect the reaction."
The interviewer nodded, appreciative.
"One final question. This result sends a message across Europe. What does it say about this Arsenal side?"
Francesco didn't hesitate this time.
"That we're not here to admire anyone's stadium," he said. "We're here to compete. To challenge. To believe in ourselves no matter where we play."
He paused, then added, quieter:
"And that belief is growing."
The interviewer held his gaze for a beat, then turned back to the camera.
"Francesco, thank you. Congratulations again."
The red light blinked off.
Just like that, the moment snapped back into reality.
The cameraman lowered the rig. The UEFA staff unclipped the microphone. The interviewer shook Francesco's hand again, this time more firmly.
"Well handled," he said. "Not an easy place to speak after a result like that."
Francesco nodded. "Thanks."
As he stepped back, the boos had softened again, many fans already turning away, conversations starting, reality settling in.
The tunnel swallowed him slowly.
The light shifted first with bright white giving way to something flatter, more industrial. The roar of the Allianz Arena dulled into a distant, echoing thrum, like thunder rolling away across mountains. Each step forward carried him further from the spectacle and closer to the raw, private heart of it all.
The dressing room.
Before he even reached it, he could hear them.
Laughter.
Shouts.
The unmistakable sound of boots being kicked against lockers, of hands slapping walls, of voices overlapping in pure, unfiltered joy.
Someone, he thought it might be Walcott that let out a long, triumphant yell that echoed down the corridor. Another voice answered it, then another, until it turned into a messy, beautiful chorus of celebration.
They were already there emotionally.
Already floating.
Francesco slowed his pace.
Not because he didn't feel it too he did, deeply, but because he understood what came next mattered just as much as what they'd done out there.
He pushed the door open.
The noise hit him like a wave.
The Arsenal dressing room was alive.
Shirts half-off, some already hanging loose around waists, others tossed onto benches or slung over shoulders. Steam rose faintly from bodies still hot from exertion, mixing with the sharp scent of liniment, sweat, and victory. Music blasted from a portable speaker near the lockers that something loud, bass-heavy, indistinct beneath the shouting.
Kanté was dancing.
Not well.
But enthusiastically.
Xhaka had an arm around Van Dijk's shoulders, laughing hard enough that his head was thrown back, teeth bared. Walcott was reenacting his goal in exaggerated fashion, sprinting three steps and sliding across the floor in socks before nearly colliding with a bench.
"Oi! Watch the floor!" someone shouted, laughing.
Cazorla sat on a bench, boots still on, towel draped around his neck, smiling quietly as he watched the chaos like a man content simply to be part of it. Sánchez paced back and forth, phone already in hand, voice rapid as he spoke to someone back home, eyes blazing with excitement.
When Francesco stepped fully inside, someone noticed.
"Cap!" Walker shouted.
Then the room shifted.
Not instantly.
But inevitably.
Heads turned.
Voices dipped.
The music was still playing, but the volume felt lower somehow, less dominant. The celebrations didn't stop, but they softened, made room.
Francesco stood just inside the door for a moment, letting it wash over him.
He smiled.
A real one.
Because they deserved this.
They had gone to one of the hardest places in Europe and torn the game open with courage, intelligence, and steel.
But he also felt it with the responsibility, settling back onto his shoulders as naturally as breathing.
He stepped forward.
Clapped his hands once.
Sharp.
Clear.
Not loud.
That was enough.
"Alright," he said, voice calm but firm. "Eyes on me for a second."
The music was turned down immediately with Xhaka reached for the speaker without being asked. Conversations faded. Laughter lingered, but attention focused.
They gathered loosely around him, some sitting, some standing, some leaning against lockers. Sweat still glistened on skin. Smiles still tugged at mouths. But they listened.
Francesco took a breath.
He looked at them one by one.
Van Dijk that immense, commanding, still riding the high of his goal.
Kanté who exhausted, radiant, legs probably still buzzing.
Walcott with energized, eyes sharp, confidence crackling.
Cazorla that calm, grounding, exactly what they'd needed when the game threatened to tilt.
Every single one of them had left something on that pitch.
"First," Francesco said, "enjoy this. Really enjoy it."
A few grins widened. Someone nodded.
"We earned tonight," he continued. "No one handed us anything. We took it. Together. In their house."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
"But—" He let the word hang for just a second longer than necessary.
The smiles softened. The room leaned in.
"But this tie isn't done."
Silence settled properly now.
Francesco stepped closer to the center of the room, boots squeaking faintly against the floor.
"We've got a three-goal margin," he said evenly. "That's big. Massive, even. And I know how tempting it is to think that means we can breathe now."
He shook his head once.
"Not against them."
No one argued.
"Listen to me," he said, voice steady, not raised. "This is Bayern Munich. Not a small team. Not a scared team. Not a team that accepts endings quietly."
He gestured vaguely, as if the stadium above them still loomed overhead.
"They're proud. They're experienced. They're ruthless when they smell doubt. And they'll come to our place with nothing to lose."
Van Dijk straightened slightly.
Walcott stopped fidgeting.
Kanté's smile faded into something focused.
"We don't go into the second leg thinking we're three goals up," Francesco continued. "We go in thinking it's nil-nil. Same discipline. Same hunger. Same respect for the danger."
He paused, letting his eyes meet theirs.
"Our enemy," he said quietly, deliberately, "is Bayern Munich. Not the scoreline. Not the headlines. Them."
The words landed.
Not dramatically.
Not theatrically.
But firmly.
"We don't protect a lead," he went on. "We protect our standards. How we press. How we pass. How we fight for each other. If we do that, the result takes care of itself."
A few nods now. Real ones.
"We enjoy tonight," he said again, softer this time. "We recover. We heal. And then we get back to work. Because nights like this mean nothing if we don't finish the job."
He exhaled.
Then his expression shifted just a touch.
"Now," he added, a hint of a smile returning, "I'm not saying don't celebrate."
That broke the tension.
Laughter bubbled up again. Someone clapped. Walcott punched the air.
"I'm saying celebrate smart," Francesco finished. "Together. Like we play."
He stepped back.
"Alright. That's all."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Van Dijk clapped once.
Hard.
"That's the captain," he said.
The room erupted again, louder this time but different. Less wild. More grounded. More purposeful.
Music went back up.
Kanté resumed dancing, dragging Walker with him this time. Walcott jumped onto a bench and led a chant. Cazorla stood now, exchanging quiet words with Xhaka, smiling but eyes thoughtful.
Francesco moved toward his locker, peeling the tape from his wrists slowly, methodically. He felt the ache setting in properly now with the deep, satisfying soreness of a job done well.
As he sat, he leaned back for a second and closed his eyes.
The boos.
The goals.
The roar of the away end.
The scoreboard.
5–2.
He let himself feel it.
Just for a moment.
Then he opened his eyes again, the sounds of celebration washing over him, already thinking ahead.
Because Bayern Munich weren't finished.
The room slowly found a new rhythm.
Not the frantic, explosive joy of the first few minutes after the whistle, but something warmer, steadier. The kind of celebration that seeps into bones rather than bursts out of lungs. Music still thumped, laughter still echoed, but it was threaded now with routine with players unstrapping shin guards, physios moving through with practiced efficiency, staff slipping quietly in and out.
Francesco peeled the last of the tape from his wrists and dropped it into the bin beside his locker. His forearms were red where studs and elbows had caught him, thin white lines already forming where ice would soon be needed. He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the stiffness settle.
Around him, the dressing room transformed.
Boots came off with relieved groans. Socks were peeled down, shin guards clattered against the floor. Someone cracked open a recovery drink and grimaced at the taste. The sharp, clean smell of disinfectant began to cut through the heavier scents of sweat and liniment as the showers were turned on one by one.
Steam started to creep out from the tiled room at the back.
"Shotgun middle shower!" Walcott shouted, already halfway there.
"You don't even need it," Xhaka fired back. "You ran for five minutes!"
Walcott laughed. "Fastest five minutes of your life."
Kanté disappeared into the showers without a word, still smiling, towel draped neatly over his shoulder. Van Dijk followed more slowly, rolling his neck from side to side, already discussing something quietly with Koscielny about positioning on corners.
Cazorla stood by his locker, carefully folding his shirt before placing it in his bag, movements precise, almost ritualistic.
Francesco rose from the bench and stretched his back slowly, feeling it crack in a way that was equal parts painful and relieving. He grabbed his towel, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the showers.
The sound changed the moment he stepped inside.
The enclosed space amplified everything with the rush of hot water, the echo of voices bouncing off tile, the slap of bare feet against the floor. Steam fogged the mirrors almost instantly, blurring reflections until faces became shapes, bodies became silhouettes.
Hot water hit Francesco's shoulders, and he exhaled deeply.
The tension began to drain.
The ache remained, but it softened, became manageable, familiar. He leaned his forehead briefly against the cool tile, letting the water run down his back, carrying sweat and grass and the night away.
Around him, the conversation drifted.
"Did you see Neuer's face on the fourth?" someone laughed.
"I thought he was going to eat the post," another replied.
Van Dijk's voice cut through the steam, calm but animated. "That corner, you see how they lined up? I knew if Santi put it right, it was on."
Cazorla chuckled softly. "You just have to jump, amigo."
"I did," Van Dijk said. "Very high."
Laughter rippled through the room.
Francesco smiled to himself, eyes closed, water cascading over his hair. He replayed moments in fragments with the first goal silence, the roar after Bayern equalized, the feeling of the ball leaving his foot on his second, the way the stadium seemed to tilt and then collapse inward when Van Dijk scored.
When he finally shut off the water and stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist, the mirrors were completely fogged. He wiped a small circle clear with his hand and caught a glimpse of himself.
Red-eyed.
Hair plastered flat.
A thin bruise already forming near his collarbone.
He looked… satisfied.
Back in the main room, players emerged one by one, skin flushed, hair damp, laughter easier now. Clean kit bags were opened, and the red Arsenal tracksuits came out that familiar, comforting, like armor for the journey home.
Francesco dressed slowly.
First the top, zipping it halfway, the crest resting over his heart. Then the bottoms, pulling them on over tired legs. Fresh socks. Trainers.
As he tied the laces, the door opened again.
Arsène Wenger stepped inside.
The effect was immediate.
Not dramatic.
But total.
The music dipped without anyone being asked. Conversations softened. Heads turned.
Wenger didn't rush.
He never did.
He took in the room with a single glance that satisfied, thoughtful, already processing. His long coat hung open, glasses perched low on his nose, hair slightly more disheveled than before the match.
He allowed himself a small smile.
"Gentlemen," he said.
A chorus of greetings followed.
"Boss."
"Gaffer."
"Coach."
Wenger raised a hand lightly. "Enjoy this evening," he said. "You have earned it."
A few nods. Quiet pride.
Then his eyes found Francesco.
"Francesco," Wenger said, voice calm. "Come with me, please."
Francesco stood immediately.
"Of course."
There was no tension in it. No fear. Just responsibility.
He grabbed his jacket, slung his bag over his shoulder, and followed Wenger toward the door. As he passed Van Dijk, the defender clapped him once on the back.
"Lead well," he said.
Francesco nodded. "See you on the bus."
The corridor outside the dressing room felt cooler, quieter. The sounds of celebration faded behind them, replaced by the muted hum of the stadium's inner workings with cleaners already at work, security staff murmuring into radios, the distant echo of footsteps.
They walked side by side for a few moments without speaking.
Wenger broke the silence first.
"You handled the interview well," he said. "Balanced."
Francesco glanced at him. "Thank you."
Wenger nodded. "It is not easy to speak clearly after such a night."
They turned a corner, heading toward the press conference area. The lights grew brighter again, harsher. The controlled chaos of media logistics reappeared with the staff moving briskly, signs pointing in multiple languages, camera operators adjusting equipment.
"You spoke about belief," Wenger continued. "That is important. But you also spoke about respect. That matters."
Francesco considered that.
"I meant it," he said. "They're dangerous."
Wenger smiled faintly. "Yes. And so are we."
They stopped outside the press room. The murmur of journalists inside seeped through the door with voices overlapping, chairs scraping, anticipation humming.
A UEFA official gestured that they had a minute.
Wenger adjusted his glasses, then turned to Francesco fully.
"One thing," he said quietly. "Inside that room, you spoke like a captain. Not about tonight, but about tomorrow. That is leadership."
Francesco felt something tighten in his chest that not pressure, but recognition.
"I just said what I felt," he replied.
Wenger nodded. "That is usually enough."
The official gestured again.
"Ready," he said.
Wenger placed a light hand on Francesco's shoulder.
"Come," he said. "Let us face them."
They stepped inside together.
The press room buzzed instantly.
Cameras whirred to life. Journalists leaned forward, pens poised, phones raised. The backdrop of Champions League branding glowed behind the table, stark and official.
Wenger took his seat first.
Francesco followed, sitting to his right.
Microphones were adjusted. Nameplates aligned.
The room settled.
A moderator leaned into his mic. "Good evening. We'll begin with questions."
Flashes went off.
Francesco sat back, shoulders squared, hands folded loosely in front of him. He glanced once toward Wenger, who gave a near-imperceptible nod.
______________________________________________
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: 34
Goal: 54
Assist: 2
MOTM: 7
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