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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And this time when he applauded them beneath the Emirates floodlights, there was no hiding the pride in his face anymore.
The roar from the Emirates still followed them long after the final whistle.
Even inside the tunnel beneath the stadium, the noise lingered like pressure in the air itself.
Arsenal players walked back toward the dressing room exhausted, sweaty, emotionally buzzing beneath the harsh tunnel lights while supporters above continued singing loudly enough for it to vibrate faintly through the concrete structure.
Big wins against Manchester United always felt different.
Heavier.
More satisfying.
More personal somehow.
Walker walked backward through the tunnel pointing triumphantly toward absolutely nobody specific.
"UNDEFEATED IN THE LAST FIFTEEN MINUTES."
Robertson looked exhausted already.
"That sentence physically hurt me."
"It's called elite mentality."
"It's called brain damage."
Several players burst into tired laughter.
Even after brutal matches, footballers somehow always found energy for nonsense.
Francesco walked beside Giroud while still catching his breath properly.
The French striker looked deeply pleased with life after the late goal.
"You see?" Giroud announced proudly while adjusting his wrist tape. "Important substitute."
"You've mentioned it seven times already."
"Because it is true."
Nearby Sánchez still looked emotionally incapable of calming down fully.
The Chilean kept replaying moments from the match aloud in fragmented bursts of English and Spanish while gesturing aggressively with a towel around his neck.
"That tackle—"
"Yes Alexis," Cazorla interrupted gently. "We remember."
"He tried to kill Francesco."
"He absolutely did not."
"He spiritually attempted murder."
Honestly impossible human being.
When Arsenal finally pushed through the dressing room doors, noise exploded immediately again.
Music blasted louder now.
Staff members applauded.
Several younger academy players helping around the stadium grinned like children seeing the first-team squad return after beating United.
The atmosphere carried that perfect mixture of exhaustion and euphoria only huge victories created.
Boots hit the floor everywhere.
Tape ripped away.
Recovery drinks appeared instantly.
Walker collapsed dramatically across a bench.
"I may never physically recover."
"You ran less than Kanté," Walcott informed him.
"That's unfair. He runs more than electricity."
Kanté laughed softly while already somehow helping collect loose recovery equipment near his locker because apparently the man's personality physically prevented selfishness.
Francesco finally sat down heavily at his place, exhaling deeply while adrenaline slowly began draining from his body.
Now that the match was over properly, fatigue hit hard.
Legs heavy.
Shoulders aching.
Lindelöf's challenge still pulsing through his thigh dully.
But underneath all of it sat satisfaction.
Pure satisfaction.
Across the room Wenger entered quietly while players still buzzed around him.
And immediately the atmosphere shifted slightly.
Not silent.
But attentive.
The manager looked around the room carefully first.
Then nodded once.
"Very good."
Simple words.
Yet from Wenger after a match like this?
That meant a lot.
"You showed maturity after difficult moments."
Again that word.
Maturity.
It had become central to everything Arsenal were building lately.
Wenger stepped further inside.
"We stayed calm after their equalizer."
Then toward the squad generally:
"And the second-half response was excellent."
Players listened closely despite exhaustion.
Because everyone knew this victory mattered beyond three points.
Beating Mourinho's United sent messages across the league.
Wenger's eyes drifted briefly toward Giroud.
"Important contribution from the bench."
Giroud immediately placed one hand dramatically against his chest.
"Finally my genius is recognized."
"Relax," Ramsey answered.
The room laughed again.
Wenger allowed the moment briefly before continuing.
"Recover properly tonight."
Then after a pause:
"And enjoy this result. You earned it."
That final sentence landed warmly.
Because Wenger rarely handed out emotional praise carelessly.
Walker immediately pointed toward him.
"HE SAID ENJOY THINGS AGAIN."
"You continue speaking," Wenger replied calmly, "despite nobody asking."
The dressing room collapsed into laughter again.
Even Wenger smiled openly this time.
Tiny moment.
But genuine.
Eventually players began moving toward the showers gradually while staff organized post-match recovery schedules around them.
Steam quickly filled the shower area while conversations echoed off tile walls through drifting hot water and tired laughter.
Football dressing rooms after victories always felt strangely human.
Not glamorous.
Just people exhausted together.
Walker somehow continued talking through nearly the entire shower.
"I'm telling you now, if Giroud scores like that every week I become unemployed."
"You were already unemployed defensively," Robertson answered instantly.
"Cruel Scottish attack again."
Nearby Sánchez replayed Francesco's goal in his mind for probably the twentieth time.
"Ozil's pass was ridiculous."
"It was disgusting," Walcott agreed.
"Beautiful," Ozil corrected calmly from across the room.
Of course he did.
Francesco leaned briefly against the tiled wall beneath hot water letting muscles finally loosen properly.
The heat helped immediately.
So did the emotional release honestly.
Weeks ago matches like this would have left him mentally tense long afterward.
Still replaying mistakes.
Still emotionally wound tight.
Tonight felt different.
Clean somehow.
The kind of performance you could simply enjoy afterward.
Eventually players filtered back toward the dressing room wrapped in towels or already half-changed into club jumpsuits while music played again through speakers near the corner.
The room smelled now like shampoo, vapor rub, deodorant, wet fabric, and victory.
Classic football atmosphere honestly.
Francesco pulled on the Arsenal jumpsuit slowly while checking his phone briefly.
Messages flooded endlessly again.
Friends.
Former teammates.
Social media chaos completely out of control already.
Leah's message sat near the top again.
Told you big-match Francesco was back ❤️
He smiled instantly.
Walker noticed immediately from nearby.
"Oho."
"Mind your business."
"Impossible. I thrive on other people's business."
Before Francesco could answer, Wenger approached quietly through the room holding a small folder beneath one arm.
"Francesco."
He looked up immediately.
"Yes?"
"You're joining me for the post-match press conference."
Walker gasped theatrically.
"The media superstar returns."
"You literally screamed for ninety minutes."
"Exactly. Inspirational leadership."
Wenger ignored him with elite-level managerial experience.
"Five minutes," the manager told Francesco calmly before heading back toward the corridor.
Francesco nodded before quickly finishing changing while players around the room continued celebrating the result in progressively less organized ways.
Giroud reenacted his goal again for anyone trapped within visual range.
Sánchez argued passionately that the Lindelöf challenge deserved prison time.
Kanté quietly ate fruit while smiling at everyone else's chaos like a peaceful observer watching wildlife documentaries.
Normal Arsenal behavior honestly.
A few minutes later Francesco stepped out into the corridor alongside Wenger while media staff guided them toward the press conference section beneath the Emirates.
The noise from supporters above still lingered faintly even now.
The stadium emptied slowly after nights like this.
Nobody wanted to leave immediately after beating Manchester United.
As they walked, Wenger adjusted the sleeve of his coat slightly.
"Control yourself if the questions become emotional."
Francesco glanced sideways.
"That sounds targeted."
"It is."
Tiny smile from Wenger again.
Rare species honestly.
The closer they moved toward the media area, the louder the atmosphere became again.
Journalists speaking rapidly.
Camera equipment moving everywhere.
Security staff directing people through corridors.
Football never really paused after matches anymore.
Not at this level.
When Wenger and Francesco finally entered the press conference room, cameras immediately shifted toward them while flashes burst across the space.
But they weren't alone.
At the opposite table section, José Mourinho and Antonio Valencia were just finishing their own media obligations.
And immediately the atmosphere changed slightly.
Not hostile yet.
But charged.
Mourinho sat leaning back in his chair wearing that same dark coat, expression unreadable beneath the bright media lights.
Valencia looked tired but composed beside him.
Wenger acknowledged neither directly at first while taking his seat calmly beside Francesco.
Still, the tension existed instantly anyway.
Too much history between these men for it not to.
Mourinho glanced briefly toward Wenger while gathering papers.
Wenger didn't look over.
Professional distance.
But cold.
Very cold.
The moderator quickly organized transitions between conferences while reporters already repositioned themselves eagerly sensing potential drama immediately.
Because football media loved nothing more than Wenger and Mourinho sharing oxygen.
Eventually Mourinho and Valencia stood to leave.
But before fully exiting, Mourinho paused briefly near Wenger's table.
"Congratulations," he said calmly.
Wenger gave a small nod.
"Thank you."
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Yet somehow the air still felt sharp afterward.
Then Mourinho moved toward the side area instead of fully leaving immediately, speaking with one of United's media staff nearby while Arsenal's conference officially began.
Interesting decision.
Very José Mourinho decision.
The moderator cleared his throat.
"Congratulations on the victory. We'll begin questions now."
Instantly hands flew upward everywhere.
A reporter from Sky Sports received the first question.
"Mister Wenger, congratulations. How important was tonight's performance against a side as tactically disciplined as Manchester United?"
Wenger folded his hands calmly.
"Very important."
His voice carried that familiar professor-like steadiness again.
"Against teams organized like United, concentration is absolutely essential."
Then after a pause:
"I think our second-half response showed personality and courage."
Several journalists typed immediately.
Another reporter looked toward Francesco.
"You've scored again in another huge match. Do games like this bring out the best in you?"
Francesco leaned slightly toward the microphone.
"I think big matches bring energy naturally."
Then after a small shrug:
"You grow up dreaming about nights like this."
True.
Completely true.
The room quieted slightly listening.
"And honestly," he added, "the atmosphere tonight helped massively. The Emirates was unbelievable."
That earned approving reactions immediately from several English journalists.
The next few questions flowed smoothly afterward.
Reporters praised Arsenal's attacking movement.
Asked about Sánchez's intensity.
Asked Wenger whether this Arsenal side now looked mentally stronger than previous years.
Wenger answered carefully as always.
"We are improving."
Classic Wenger response honestly.
Never too emotional publicly.
A Spanish journalist asked Francesco about the chemistry developing between himself, Ozil, and Sánchez.
Francesco smiled faintly.
"We understand each other better every week."
Then toward the media room generally:
"And when Alexis starts chasing people like a maniac, everyone else kind of has to follow."
Laughter spread across the room immediately.
Even Wenger looked mildly amused.
Another reporter asked whether Giroud becoming an impact substitute changed matches psychologically for opponents.
Giroud himself probably heard the question spiritually from the dressing room.
Then finally one English reporter near the middle stood carefully.
And the entire room subtly shifted.
Because everyone knew exactly where this was going.
"Mister Wenger," the journalist began, "what was your view of Lindelöf's challenge on Francesco during the second half?"
Silence immediately tightened slightly around the room.
The reporter continued.
"Did you believe it deserved a red card?"
Wenger opened his mouth to answer, as Mourinho interrupted instantly from across the side area before fully leaving.
"It was yellow."
Every head in the room snapped toward him immediately.
The United manager stepped slightly forward now, expression hard.
"Honestly," Mourinho continued, "I don't even think it was a foul."
The room exploded into noise immediately.
Reporters talking over each other.
Cameras turning wildly between both managers.
Valencia looked like a man deeply regretting existing nearby.
Francesco blinked once slowly beside Wenger.
Oh no.
Wenger turned his head toward Mourinho fully now for the first time all evening.
His expression changed immediately.
Not shouting yet.
But sharp.
Very sharp.
"Not a foul?" Wenger repeated carefully.
Mourinho shrugged.
"He touched the ball cleanly."
Francesco almost laughed from disbelief.
Touched the ball cleanly?
Lindelöf had practically attempted geological excavation through his leg.
Wenger leaned slightly forward.
"If that is your definition of clean tackling, football becomes dangerous."
Mourinho stepped closer now.
"No. Football becomes physical."
The temperature in the room skyrocketed instantly.
Reporters practically vibrated with happiness.
Because this?
This was football media gold.
Wenger's jaw tightened visibly.
"He came through the player recklessly."
Mourinho fired back immediately.
"Your player exaggerated the contact."
That one nearly detonated the room completely.
Francesco stared toward Mourinho openly now.
"Exaggerated?"
The Portuguese manager looked directly at him calmly.
"Yes."
"Oh come on," Francesco answered before stopping himself halfway through saying something much worse.
The moderator already looked terrified.
Wenger leaned forward sharply.
"He could have injured him."
Mourinho spread his hands dismissively.
"He didn't."
"And if he had?"
Now both managers were half-standing from their positions.
Reporters shouted questions over one another trying capture every second.
Cameras flashed relentlessly.
Pure chaos again.
Exactly like the touchline confrontation earlier.
Mourinho's voice sharpened now too.
"This is Premier League football, not ballet."
Wenger stood fully.
"And recklessness is still recklessness."
Mourinho stepped forward another half pace.
"You always want protection for your players."
"And you always defend dangerous tackles."
The room lost all remaining structure immediately.
Security staff moved subtly closer.
The moderator repeatedly attempted restoring order while being completely ignored by everyone alive.
Francesco genuinely thought for one terrifying second these two men might actually fight in a press conference room in front of international media.
Again.
History repeating itself beautifully and disastrously at the same time.
Valencia finally intervened first surprisingly.
"Coach," he muttered quietly toward Mourinho.
Meanwhile Wenger still looked furious.
Not theatrical fury either.
Real anger.
Because underneath all the rivalry, Wenger genuinely hated reckless challenges.
Always had.
Mourinho folded his arms tightly.
"You won the match. Why complain?"
Wenger answered instantly.
"Because player safety matters."
That line cut sharply enough the room actually quieted for half a second.
Then Mourinho gave a humorless smile.
"Only when it suits you."
"Oh that is nonsense."
"You think football should be soft."
"I think football should not injure people deliberately."
Both speaking louder again now.
The moderator looked one stress level away from retirement.
Reporters absolutely adored every second.
Francesco sat there half-exhausted, half-amused, watching twenty years of football rivalry combust live again over his shin.
Honestly surreal.
Eventually security and media staff physically encouraged Mourinho back toward the side exit area before things escalated even further.
The Portuguese manager finally turned away with a dismissive gesture.
"Enjoy your victory."
Wenger answered immediately.
"We will."
Cold.
Sharp.
Perfectly Wenger.
Mourinho disappeared down the corridor afterward alongside Valencia while reporters continued shouting questions desperately after him.
The room buzzed with absolute chaos for another several moments before the moderator somehow regained enough control to continue.
Wenger slowly sat back down adjusting his jacket calmly again like a man attempting to pretend none of that had happened.
Though the slight redness in his face suggested otherwise.
Francesco leaned slightly toward him quietly.
"You alright?"
Wenger exhaled once through his nose.
"Yes."
Pause.
"Though apparently football is now ballet."
Francesco nearly laughed directly into the microphone.
The tension broke slightly around the room afterward too.
Even several reporters smiled.
Eventually the conference resumed properly, though the atmosphere never fully settled again.
Every journalist in the room now looked energized beyond belief.
Tomorrow's headlines had just written themselves.
The next day, morning arrived slowly over Richmond beneath pale winter sunlight and lingering clouds drifting low across London.
The kind of cold morning where the world felt quieter after a massive night before.
Not silent.
Just slower.
The adrenaline had finally faded.
Mostly.
Inside the mansion, warmth from the fireplace mixed with the smell of coffee and toasted bread while soft television noise filled the living room. Outside the windows, thin frost still clung faintly to the edges of the garden despite the late morning hour.
Cheddar had already decided the day belonged entirely to him.
The corgi sprinted wildly across the living room carrying one of Francesco's socks like stolen military intelligence while absolutely nobody chased him hard enough to justify the level of excitement involved.
"Cheddar," Leah said while trying not to laugh, "that is not your sock."
The dog ignored her completely.
Naturally.
Francesco sat stretched across the couch wearing Arsenal training pants and a dark hoodie, one arm resting lazily along the back cushions while nursing a second coffee of the morning.
Every muscle in his body still ached from the match.
Especially his thigh.
Lindelöf's tackle had left a beautiful bruise developing already.
But overall?
Worth it.
Completely worth it.
Leah sat beside him curled beneath a blanket, occasionally reaching down to rescue cushions from Cheddar's increasingly aggressive campaigns against household furniture.
The television mounted across the room showed exactly what both of them expected.
Football coverage.
Endless football coverage.
And specifically?
Wenger versus Mourinho.
Again.
The broadcasters had somehow turned last night's press conference into international political conflict within twelve hours.
Francesco watched footage replay again of Wenger half-standing from his chair while Mourinho fired back from across the room.
"…football is not ballet…"
"…recklessness is still recklessness…"
"…you always defend dangerous tackles…"
Every sports channel in England apparently considered this the greatest thing to happen since electricity.
Leah stared at the screen for a moment before slowly looking toward Francesco.
"You know," she said carefully, "most people get tackled without accidentally reigniting historical football warfare."
"That feels unfairly targeted."
"You literally became the center of a Mourinho-Wenger argument."
"I didn't ask for it."
"You existed near the challenge. That was enough."
Fair honestly.
On television the presenters analyzed the confrontation with the seriousness of military historians discussing ancient wars.
One former defender on the panel shook his head thoughtfully.
"I actually agree with Wenger. Lindelöf was lucky."
Another immediately argued back.
"No chance. Strong challenge. Yellow card at most."
The debate instantly restarted again.
Exactly like last night.
Francesco leaned back deeper into the couch exhaling slowly while Cheddar finally abandoned the sock and launched himself directly onto Leah's lap instead.
The dog looked deeply pleased with his morning achievements.
Leah scratched behind his ears absently while the television replayed the tackle for probably the thousandth time already.
Slow motion.
Different angles.
Freeze frames.
Commentary breakdowns.
Football truly never knew how to let things go.
"There," Leah said while pointing toward the screen. "That angle looks awful."
"It felt awful."
"You sure you're okay?"
Francesco flexed his leg slightly.
"Sore."
Then after a pause:
"But fine."
Leah studied him carefully for another second anyway.
Footballers always said they were fine.
Even when missing limbs probably.
The broadcast shifted again toward a studio discussion specifically about Wenger and Mourinho's rivalry history.
And immediately the room became unintentionally hilarious.
Because the producers had apparently assembled every dramatic moment imaginable from the last two decades.
Touchline confrontations.
Passive aggressive interviews.
Cold handshakes.
The infamous shove years earlier.
Mourinho smirking.
Wenger glaring.
Commentators speaking like documentary narrators covering volcanic eruptions.
Cheddar barked loudly at Mourinho's face appearing fullscreen on television.
Leah burst into laughter instantly.
"Oh no."
"Even the dog has opinions now."
Cheddar barked again.
More aggressively this time.
Francesco pointed toward him seriously.
"You've chosen violence early today."
The corgi sprinted off immediately afterward for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
On the screen, one presenter smiled knowingly.
"The fascinating thing is that despite everything, there's still enormous mutual respect between them tactically."
Another nodded.
"That's what makes it so intense. They genuinely hate losing to each other."
That part felt true.
Watching Wenger last night, Francesco had realized something again.
The rivalry with Mourinho wasn't just media theater anymore.
Too many battles.
Too much history.
Too many philosophical differences about football itself.
Wenger believed football should breathe.
Mourinho believed football should control.
And whenever those worlds collided, sparks followed naturally.
Leah muted the television briefly while turning sideways toward him.
"You know the headlines are ridiculous now, right?"
"I can imagine."
"No," she corrected immediately. "You really can't."
She reached for her phone before reading aloud dramatically.
"'WAR RETURNS TO THE PREMIER LEAGUE.'"
Francesco groaned instantly.
"Oh God."
"Wait, there's more."
She scrolled further.
"'WENGER AND MOURINHO CLASH AGAIN AFTER ARSENAL STATEMENT WIN.'"
Reasonable.
Then:
"'FRANCESCO INCIDENT SPARKS OLD FEUD.'"
"That one sounds like I committed a crime."
"You technically survived one."
Fair enough honestly.
Leah smiled while tossing her phone aside afterward.
"But you were brilliant yesterday."
That softened him immediately.
Not because of praise itself.
Because of the way she said it.
Simple.
Honest.
No performance.
Francesco glanced toward the muted television where highlights now rolled again of Arsenal's goals.
His goal first.
Ozil's absurd pass splitting the defense open.
Then Sánchez screaming toward the crowd after making it 2–1.
Then Giroud's late finish killing the match completely.
The Emirates looked alive in every clip.
Roaring.
Shaking.
Beautiful.
Leah followed his gaze quietly.
"You looked happy again."
That sentence landed differently.
Because she meant more than football.
Francesco stayed quiet for a second before nodding slowly.
"Yeah."
And it was true.
The pressure still existed.
The expectations still existed.
Big matches still mattered enormously.
But something had changed internally recently.
Football felt lighter again somehow.
Cleaner.
Like he trusted himself again.
Cheddar returned suddenly carrying a different sock entirely.
Leah blinked.
"Where is he even finding these?"
"No idea."
The dog sprinted across the room while slipping slightly on hardwood floors before recovering dramatically like an athlete surviving disaster.
Francesco laughed quietly despite himself.
The television volume came back on just as the coverage shifted toward post-match interviews from outside the Emirates.
Supporters wrapped in scarves grinned into microphones talking excitedly about the result.
One older Arsenal supporter shook his head emotionally.
"That second-half performance… that's title-winning mentality."
Another shouted proudly:
"We bullied United!"
Leah looked toward Francesco with raised eyebrows.
"That feels slightly aggressive."
"Football fans become poets after victories."
Then another supporter appeared yelling:
"Francesco absolutely cooked them!"
"…or chefs apparently."
The coverage returned to studio analysis again afterward.
This time focusing on Arsenal tactically.
One analyst pointed toward the screen displaying freeze-frame movement during Sánchez's goal.
"Look at the positional rotation here. Ozil drifting deeper creates the overload, Francesco occupies Smalling, Sánchez attacks the gap…"
Francesco watched silently.
Football looked strange from outside sometimes.
Everything slowed down.
Reduced into diagrams and explanations.
Out there on the pitch it had simply felt instinctive.
Movement.
Space.
Timing.
Emotion.
Leah leaned lightly against his shoulder while the analysis continued.
"You know what my favorite part was?"
"What?"
"The moment after your goal."
Francesco looked over.
"You screamed like somebody escaping prison."
"…that bad?"
"It was adorable."
"Adorable is not really the image I'm aiming for after scoring against United."
"Too late."
Cheddar jumped onto the couch between them again demanding attention with the emotional intensity of a neglected monarch.
Leah rubbed his stomach absentmindedly while Francesco checked his phone again.
More messages.
Far too many messages.
Walker alone had sent fourteen.
Most made absolutely no sense.
One simply read:
WE HAVE OFFICIALLY EMOTIONALLY DAMAGED MANCHESTER
Another:
MOURINHO FEARS THE POWER OF VIBES
Then finally:
Tell Wenger I am available for media training
Francesco laughed immediately.
Leah looked over.
"Walker?"
"Obviously."
"Is he always like this?"
"Yes."
"Constantly?"
"Yes."
"That's exhausting."
"You get used to it."
No you didn't honestly.
The television shifted again toward footage of Wenger arriving at London Colney earlier that morning.
The reporters immediately swarmed him with questions about Mourinho.
Of course they did.
Wenger handled it with classic exhausted elegance.
"I prefer to speak about football."
Which translated roughly into:
Please leave me alone before I commit crimes publicly.
The reporter pushed again asking whether he regretted the confrontation.
Wenger adjusted his coat calmly.
"No."
Then walked away.
Leah nearly applauded.
"That was cold."
"He's French."
"Fair point."
Francesco leaned his head back against the couch cushions listening to the low hum of television coverage and the occasional sound of Cheddar attacking another innocent household object somewhere nearby.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months honestly, there was no emotional storm sitting underneath the morning after a huge match.
No anxiety replaying mistakes.
No frustration.
No emptiness.
Just satisfaction.
And exhaustion.
Mostly exhaustion.
Leah seemed to notice it too.
Because after a while she rested her head lightly against his shoulder and spoke more quietly.
"You needed that match."
Francesco looked down slightly.
"Yeah."
"You looked like yourself again."
There it was again.
That feeling.
Not just performing well.
Feeling whole again.
The television now replayed the moment Wenger and Mourinho nearly stood face-to-face during the press conference while reporters shouted everywhere around them.
The subtitle underneath read:
OLD RIVALRY REIGNITED
Cheddar barked at Mourinho again.
Leah pointed immediately.
"He's consistent."
"He's loyal."
The corgi then attempted jumping onto the coffee table, failed completely, and slid harmlessly back onto the carpet with deeply wounded dignity.
Francesco burst into laughter properly now.
The kind that loosened something in the chest.
Leah laughed too while Cheddar stared at both of them like betrayal had occurred.
Outside, pale winter sunlight finally began breaking slightly through the clouds beyond the windows.
And inside the mansion, with football chaos screaming through television broadcasts and a corgi committing athletic crimes across the living room.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 23
Goal: 30
Assist: 1
MOTM: 4
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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