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...
Francesco looked once more toward the England supporters as they sang his name beneath the lights of Saint Petersburg Stadium.
As the singing continued around Saint Petersburg Stadium.
Francesco stood among his teammates, still trying to convince himself that what had just happened was real.
England had beaten France.
They were in the World Cup final.
But before the celebration could continue, there was one thing Francesco knew he had to do.
He turned away from the England players and looked toward the French side.
The French players were beginning to gather themselves.
Some stood with their hands on their hips.
Others sat on the grass.
A few stared toward the scoreboard.
The disappointment was obvious.
Francesco understood it.
He had experienced enough defeats to know that sometimes there was nothing anyone could say to make the feeling disappear.
So he walked toward them.
The first French player he reached was Olivier Giroud.
Giroud looked exhausted.
His shirt was soaked, and there was a distant expression in his eyes.
Francesco held out his hand.
"Unlucky, Oli."
Giroud took it.
"Congratulations."
They shook hands firmly before embracing.
"You gave us a horrible night," Francesco said.
Giroud laughed quietly.
"You gave us a worse one."
Francesco smiled.
"Thank you."
Giroud nodded.
"Go win it now."
Francesco's expression softened.
"We'll try."
They separated.
A few steps later, Francesco found N'Golo Kanté.
For a moment, the noise around them seemed to disappear.
Kanté was still breathing heavily.
He looked at Francesco.
Then smiled sadly.
"So close."
Francesco walked straight into the embrace.
"I know."
Kanté held him tightly for a moment.
"Congratulations."
"I'm sorry."
Kanté shook his head.
"Don't be."
Francesco pulled back.
"You were incredible."
Kanté smiled.
"So were you."
They both laughed softly.
There was something strange about standing on opposite sides of a World Cup semi-final when they spent so much of their footballing lives as Arsenal teammates.
Francesco shook his head.
"I'm going to have to see you at Arsenal after this."
Kanté laughed.
"Yes."
"And you're going to remind me about this for the rest of the season."
"No."
Kanté's smile widened.
"You'll remind me."
Francesco laughed.
"Fair."
They embraced once more.
Then Francesco moved on.
He exchanged handshakes with Varane and Umtiti.
Pogba gave him a tired nod.
Griezmann shook his hand firmly.
Then Francesco saw Kylian Mbappé.
The young French forward stood a little away from the others.
He looked devastated.
Francesco knew exactly how old he was.
Only one year younger.
There was something almost surreal about seeing another young player carrying such enormous expectations on a stage like this.
Francesco approached him.
"Kylian."
Mbappé looked up.
"Congratulations."
Francesco shook his head.
"Thank you."
They embraced briefly.
"You played well," Francesco said.
Mbappé looked down.
"We lost."
"I know."
Francesco waited.
"But don't let tonight define you."
Mbappé looked at him.
Francesco continued.
"You're young. You've got so much ahead of you."
Mbappé gave a small smile.
"That's easy for you to say."
"Maybe."
Francesco smiled.
"But I mean it."
He placed a hand briefly on Mbappé's shoulder.
"Your time will come."
Mbappé nodded.
"Thank you."
They shook hands.
Then Francesco left him with the rest of the French players.
Football demanded winners and losers.
Tonight, England had been the winners.
But respect mattered too.
Eventually Francesco returned toward the England players.
The celebrations had become slightly calmer.
The substitutes were still running around.
Pickford had finally gotten back onto his feet.
Henderson was still laughing.
Rooney was talking animatedly with Trippier.
Then a FIFA media staff member approached Francesco.
"Francesco?"
He turned.
"Official post-match interview."
Francesco laughed tiredly.
"Of course."
The man smiled.
"Just one more."
Francesco followed him toward the interview area.
The cameras were already waiting.
The interviewer smiled.
"Francesco, England are in the World Cup final. How does that sound?"
Francesco looked toward the pitch.
"It doesn't feel real yet."
The interviewer laughed.
"Why?"
"Because France made us work for every second of it."
He shook his head.
"That was probably the hardest match we've played."
"You scored the opening goal."
Francesco smiled.
"I was lucky enough to find a little bit of space."
"A beautiful finish."
"Thank you."
"And then Kane scored the second."
Francesco nodded.
"That was massive."
He paused.
"Henderson's pass was brilliant. Harry made the run. That's what this team is about."
The interviewer asked, "France came back to 2–1."
"Yeah."
Francesco's expression became serious.
"And then it became very difficult."
He laughed softly.
"I think everyone was suffering."
"But England held on."
"Because everyone worked."
He looked toward the camera.
"Pickford made saves. The defenders blocked everything they could. Henderson was running everywhere. Rooney helped us manage the ball. Sterling gave us an outlet."
He shook his head.
"It wasn't one player."
"And now you're in the final."
Francesco took a breath.
"That's incredible."
He smiled.
"But we're not champions."
The interviewer raised an eyebrow.
"You're one match away."
"One match."
Francesco nodded.
"And that's the one we have to prepare for."
The interviewer thanked him.
As Francesco turned away, another FIFA official approached carrying a presentation case.
Francesco immediately recognised it.
He stared.
"No."
The official laughed.
"Yes."
"Again?"
"Man of the Match."
Francesco covered his face with one hand.
"You're joking."
The official opened the case.
The award was placed into Francesco's hands.
The photographers immediately surrounded him.
"Francesco, this way!"
"Look here!"
"Lift it slightly!"
Flash after flash illuminated his face.
Francesco finally gave in and smiled.
He raised the award.
Across the pitch, Henderson spotted him.
He pointed.
"Another one!"
Rooney laughed.
"He's collecting them!"
Trippier shouted from nearby.
"Where are you going to put all those?"
Francesco shook his head.
"I'm going to need another suitcase."
The players laughed.
It was exactly what he needed.
Something normal.
Something stupid.
Something that made the unbelievable night feel human.
Eventually Francesco returned to the dressing room.
The noise followed him through the corridor.
But once the door closed behind him, exhaustion hit.
He sat down.
For several seconds, he simply stared at the floor.
Then he stood and headed toward the showers.
Hot water poured over him.
He leaned against the wall.
His muscles ached everywhere.
His legs felt heavy.
His shoulders were stiff.
His mind kept replaying the match.
The first-half goal.
Kane's finish.
Umtiti's header.
The final minutes.
That last clearance.
The whistle.
England were going to the final.
Francesco closed his eyes.
He stayed under the water for a long time.
Eventually he dried himself, changed into the official England jumpsuit and returned to his locker.
The Man of the Match award was placed carefully inside his luggage.
He checked it twice.
Then zipped the bag shut.
The dressing room had become quieter.
Some players were already dressed.
Others were still showering.
Kane was sitting with his phone in his hand.
Henderson looked exhausted but happy.
Rooney leaned back against the locker.
Trippier was still smiling.
Francesco picked up his belongings.
"Ready?"
Kane looked at him.
"As ready as I'm going to be."
They walked out together.
The corridors were calmer now.
The team bus waited outside.
One by one, the players climbed aboard.
Francesco took his usual seat near the window.
Kane sat nearby.
The bus remained still for several minutes.
Nobody was quite ready to speak about the final yet.
Then the door opened.
Southgate climbed aboard.
The players applauded.
Southgate smiled.
"All right."
He looked around.
"Congratulations."
Henderson nodded.
"Thank you."
Southgate walked down the aisle.
"You've earned tonight."
He paused.
"But remember something."
The bus quietened.
"The biggest match is still ahead."
Francesco watched him.
Southgate smiled.
"Enjoy this journey."
Then he moved toward his seat.
The bus finally pulled away.
Saint Petersburg disappeared behind them.
The players gradually relaxed.
Some talked quietly.
Some looked through photographs.
Others simply stared out of the windows.
Francesco leaned back.
The city lights passed by.
A few hours earlier, France had seemed like the biggest obstacle in the world.
Now they were history.
Soon the bus reached the airport.
The squad moved through security and boarded their aircraft.
When the plane finally lifted into the night sky, Francesco looked through the window.
He thought about the group stage.
Then Japan.
Brazil.
France.
Each match had seemed impossible in its own way.
Now there was only one left.
The World Cup final.
The flight toward Moscow was quieter than the journey from Kazan had been.
Everyone was exhausted.
But the mood was different.
They weren't returning from a victory wondering whether they could progress.
They were flying toward the final.
Moscow.
The host city.
The place where the World Cup would be decided.
Eventually the aircraft descended.
Morning light was beginning to appear across the horizon.
Moscow spread beneath them.
The plane landed.
The players collected their belongings and boarded the waiting England team bus.
Outside, the city was already beginning to welcome the World Cup finalists.
England flags appeared among the streets.
Supporters gathered behind barriers.
Some waved.
Some shouted.
Others simply tried to get a glimpse of the players.
Francesco watched through the window.
"This is crazy," Lingard murmured from behind him.
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah."
The bus eventually reached the hotel.
The players stepped inside slowly, carrying bags over their shoulders.
There were no cameras inside.
No interviews.
Just tired footballers arriving at their accommodation after the longest night of their tournament.
They checked in.
Went to their rooms.
And finally slept.
The following morning felt completely different.
There was no training.
No tactical meeting.
No football.
The staff had deliberately given the players another genuine day away from the game before the final preparations began.
Some players explored Moscow.
Others stayed around the hotel.
A few went out with staff members.
For Francesco, the day became something more personal.
He received a message early in the morning.
We're here.
He smiled immediately.
His parents had arrived.
Sarah and Mike were waiting to see him.
And they weren't alone.
Leah Williamson had come too, accompanied by her parents, David and Amanda, and her brother Jacob.
When Francesco finally walked into the meeting area, he barely had time to say anything.
His mother hugged him first.
"Look at you."
Francesco laughed.
"Hi, Mum."
She squeezed him tighter.
"We watched everything."
Mike hugged him next.
"Two-one."
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah."
"You nearly killed us."
Francesco laughed.
"I think everyone nearly died."
Then Leah stepped forward.
For a moment, Francesco simply smiled.
She hugged him tightly.
"I'm proud of you."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Thank you."
Her parents greeted him warmly.
David shook his hand.
"That was some match."
Amanda smiled.
"Your mum was impossible to watch with."
Sarah immediately protested.
"I was perfectly calm."
Everyone laughed.
Jacob shook his head.
"You were not calm."
Sarah looked at him.
"You were shouting too."
"Because Mbappé was running at Walker!"
Francesco laughed.
The conversation quickly became animated.
They talked about the semi-final.
The first goal.
Kane's finish.
The French comeback.
The final minutes.
Pickford's saves.
Henderson's tackle.
Every family member had noticed something different.
Leah smiled when Francesco mentioned the final.
"One more."
He nodded.
"One more."
David raised his glass.
"To the final."
Everyone joined.
"To the final."
For a few hours, the World Cup pressure seemed distant.
There were jokes.
Stories.
Laughter.
Photos.
Questions about Moscow.
Questions about the team.
Questions about whether Francesco had even slept.
"Barely," he admitted.
His mother shook her head.
"You need to rest."
"I know."
Leah smiled.
"Listen to your mother."
Francesco looked at her.
"Now you're both against me."
"Yes," she said.
Everyone laughed.
Later, they walked together through Moscow for a while.
The city felt alive.
Supporters from different countries still filled the streets.
Flags hung from balconies.
World Cup shirts appeared everywhere.
People stopped to take photographs.
Francesco tried to keep the afternoon simple.
No football conversations for a little while.
Just family.
Just laughter.
Just being together.
Eventually, though, the day began to disappear.
The final was approaching.
Francesco knew he had to return.
Before leaving, he hugged his parents again.
"See you soon."
Sarah held him for an extra second.
"Go enjoy it."
Mike nodded.
"Whatever happens, you've already made us proud."
Francesco smiled.
Leah stepped closer.
She looked at him.
"Final."
"Final."
She hugged him.
"Go finish the story."
Francesco laughed softly.
"I'll try."
Then he turned toward the hotel.
The noise of Moscow continued around him.
But inside his mind, the world had become very simple again.
The day off had given him something he desperately needed.
A few hours with the people who knew him before the stadiums, the cameras, the goals and the pressure.
Now he had to return to the England camp.
The final preparations were about to begin.
Japan was history.
Brazil was history.
France was history.
There was only one match left.
Then thefollowing morning, Moscow woke beneath a pale summer sky.
For most of the city, the World Cup final was already becoming the only subject that mattered.
For England, however, the tournament had to become football again.
The laughter of the previous day, the family visits, the walks through Moscow and the brief freedom from football were all behind them.
Now there was training.
And this time, there was no next opponent to be discovered.
No calculations about possible quarter-final routes.
No wondering who might come through another knockout match.
There was only Croatia.
One opponent.
One match.
One trophy.
Francesco arrived at the Spartak Moscow training ground alongside Kane, Henderson, Rooney, Sterling, Trippier, Alli, Lingard and the rest of the squad.
The players climbed from the vehicles carrying their boots and training bags, some still looking slightly sleepy.
Lingard stretched as he walked.
"I think my legs are still in Saint Petersburg."
Rooney glanced at him.
"You left them there?"
"Apparently."
Trippier laughed.
"You should've packed them."
Francesco shook his head.
"You two are going to be useless if we get to the final."
Lingard pointed at him.
"We've already got there."
"That doesn't mean you've got to stop working."
"Captain's speech already?"
"Not yet."
Henderson smiled.
"Give him five minutes."
The laughter faded naturally as they entered the training area.
The mood wasn't tense.
Not exactly.
But it was different.
The players understood that the final had changed everything.
There was a strange stillness beneath the excitement.
England were no longer preparing simply to advance.
They were preparing to become world champions.
Southgate and his staff had deliberately kept the opening session controlled.
The first part was recovery.
Light jogging.
Mobility exercises.
Stretching.
Short changes of direction.
Nothing dramatic.
The players had just endured a brutal semi-final, and the coaching staff had no intention of winning a training session at the expense of the final.
After the physical work came passing.
Short combinations.
One touch.
Two touch.
Move.
Receive.
Play again.
The ball moved around the group with increasing speed.
Henderson demanded movement.
"Don't stand!"
"Give him an option!"
Francesco dropped into space.
Kane came toward him.
A pass.
Return.
Kane turned.
Francesco immediately ran beyond him.
The ball came back.
Francesco controlled and finished into the small goal.
"Better," one of the coaches called.
Then possession.
Small-sided games.
Immediate pressure after losing the ball.
Five seconds to recover possession.
The players pressed aggressively.
Rooney, despite his fresh legs after coming off the bench against France, threw himself into the exercise.
Sterling chased everything.
Francesco constantly communicated.
"Inside!"
"Push up!"
"Don't leave the gap!"
The defenders responded.
Maguire and Stones kept the back line connected.
Walker monitored the space behind them.
Rose and Trippier were constantly adjusting their positions.
Pickford shouted from behind them.
"Keep talking!"
Then the coaches introduced attacking combinations.
And that was when the session became specifically about Croatia.
A tactical screen was brought onto the training pitch.
Croatian players appeared across it.
Midfield patterns.
Passing triangles.
Movements between the lines.
Transitions.
Southgate stood beside the screen.
"Respect them."
Nobody moved.
"They've earned their place here."
He pointed toward the midfield.
"They're experienced. They can keep the ball. They can slow a match down when they need to, and they can accelerate it when they see an opportunity."
Another sequence played.
Croatia moved the ball through midfield before creating space on the flank.
Southgate stopped it.
"This is what we have to prevent."
He looked toward Henderson.
"Don't let them dictate the rhythm."
Henderson nodded.
Then toward the defenders.
"Stay connected. If we get stretched, they'll find the gaps."
Another clip.
Croatia advancing.
The defensive line retreating.
A midfielder arriving late.
A chance created.
Southgate paused it.
"And when they come forward?"
Francesco answered.
"We attack the space behind them."
Southgate nodded.
"Exactly."
It was not about sitting back and hoping.
England had not reached the final by becoming passive.
They would respect Croatia without becoming frightened of them.
The tactical work continued.
Croatia's midfield rotations.
How to deal with their possession.
When Kane should drop.
When Francesco should move beyond him.
When Sterling could attack the space outside the full-back.
When Alli should drift between defenders.
When Henderson should hold his position.
Every movement had a reason.
At one point Francesco remained beside Henderson after the exercise ended.
"They'll try to pull us apart," Francesco said.
Henderson nodded.
"Especially if we chase the ball."
"So we don't."
"Exactly."
Francesco looked toward the defenders.
"And if they push both midfielders forward?"
Henderson smiled.
"Then there's space."
Francesco nodded.
"Good."
Later, Kane joined them.
"What are you two plotting?"
"Your next goal."
Kane laughed.
"That's easy."
Francesco looked at him.
"Against Croatia?"
"Against anyone."
Henderson shook his head.
"Confidence."
"Someone has to have it."
The three laughed.
But the conversation quickly became serious again.
Kane pointed toward the tactical screen.
"If I drop here, you go beyond?"
Francesco nodded.
"And if they follow me?"
"Then Alli comes inside."
"Exactly."
It was becoming instinctive.
They had spent the tournament learning each other's movements.
Now they were refining them for one final opponent.
The following days settled into a disciplined rhythm.
Training.
Video analysis.
Recovery.
Treatment.
Meals.
Rest.
Then training again.
Southgate's staff carefully controlled every workload.
Nobody needed unnecessary punishment.
The players were already carrying the weight of an entire tournament in their legs.
Some sessions were intense.
Others were deliberately light.
Finishing became particularly important.
Francesco stayed after one afternoon with Kane.
Crosses came in from Trippier and Rose.
Kane attacked the near post.
Francesco delayed his run.
Another ball.
Kane touched it back.
Francesco finished.
"Again."
Another.
This time Francesco took it first time.
Goal.
Kane nodded.
"That's the one."
Francesco collected another ball.
"Imagine the stadium."
Kane smiled.
"Don't."
"Why?"
"Because then I'll start thinking about it."
Francesco laughed.
"Fair."
Henderson occasionally stayed behind as well.
He and Francesco would sit on the edge of the pitch after training, watching Croatia footage on a tablet.
There was something strangely peaceful about it.
The stadium was empty.
The rest of the squad had gone inside.
Only the distant sounds of staff packing equipment remained.
Henderson paused a clip.
"They're patient."
"Very."
"They'll want us to lose our heads."
Francesco nodded.
"So we don't."
Henderson looked at him.
"That's the whole thing."
Outside the controlled environment of the training ground, however, the final was becoming impossible to escape.
Television networks around the world were running constant coverage.
England versus Croatia.
Croatia versus England.
The World Cup final.
Former players debated tactics.
Pundits argued over midfield control.
Analysts studied Kane's movement.
Others focused on Francesco.
His goals against Japan.
His performances against Brazil.
His stunning finish against France.
Three knockout victories.
Three enormous performances.
Some called him England's most dangerous player.
Others warned that Croatia had enough experience to prevent one player from deciding the match.
Pickford's saves were analysed.
Henderson's leadership was praised.
England's defensive resilience was discussed repeatedly.
And in Croatia, the confidence was just as strong.
Their supporters believed.
Their media believed.
Their players believed.
Nobody had reached the final by accident.
England understood that.
Then came the third-place match.
France against Belgium.
Two teams who had expected to be preparing for the final instead met with only a bronze medal and pride remaining.
The England squad watched portions of the match around the hotel.
Some players sat in the lounge.
Others followed updates on their phones.
Francesco watched quietly.
The match was competitive.
Both sides still had something to prove.
But eventually France found the decisive goal.
One-nil.
France finished third.
Belgium finished fourth.
The result was acknowledged around the England camp.
Kane glanced at the television.
"Good for them."
Henderson nodded.
"They'll want to leave with something."
Francesco looked at the screen.
He remembered Giroud.
Kanté.
Mbappé.
The disappointment in their faces.
He hoped the victory gave them some comfort.
But there was no lingering conversation.
England's attention had to remain where it belonged.
The final.
Almost immediately, the football world shifted.
The third-place match disappeared from the headlines.
Every major broadcast returned to the same subject.
England versus Croatia.
Moscow.
The final.
The trophy.
The city itself seemed to change.
Flags appeared everywhere.
England shirts.
Croatian shirts.
Supporters singing in streets.
Journalists carrying equipment through hotel entrances.
Television crews setting up outside stadiums.
Fans arriving from across the world.
The closer the final came, the less Moscow seemed capable of talking about anything else.
Inside the England hotel, the players tried to maintain normality.
Breakfast still happened at the same time.
Treatment still happened.
Meals remained structured.
Training schedules remained fixed.
But every now and then, someone would look toward a television screen.
Or hear supporters outside.
Or receive another message.
The reality would return.
The final was coming.
One evening Francesco stood by the hotel window.
Moscow stretched beneath him.
The lights seemed endless.
He thought about the journey.
The group stage.
The uncertainty at the beginning.
Japan.
The pressure of Brazil.
The battle with France.
Three matches that had demanded something different from England.
Three victories.
But none of them mattered now.
He smiled faintly.
They had brought him here.
But they couldn't win the final for him.
The next day Southgate addressed the players after training.
They stood together near the centre circle.
The manager looked around.
"This is what we've worked toward."
Nobody spoke.
"Everything you've done has brought you here."
He paused.
"But don't let the occasion become bigger than the football."
Francesco listened closely.
"Croatia deserve our respect."
Southgate's voice was calm.
"They are experienced. They are organised. They are comfortable under pressure."
He looked from player to player.
"But we have to play our football."
Henderson nodded.
"Patience."
"Discipline," Southgate continued.
"Courage."
"Concentration."
He paused.
"And trust."
The players remained silent.
"Don't try to become something you're not because this is a World Cup final."
Southgate looked toward Francesco.
"Be yourselves."
That sentence stayed with him.
The players dispersed.
Francesco walked beside Kane.
"Ready?"
Kane smiled.
"No."
Francesco laughed.
"Good."
Kane looked at him.
"You?"
"Not even slightly."
They both laughed.
But beneath the humour was something genuine.
Nobody could honestly say they felt completely ready for a World Cup final.
How could they?
The biggest match of their careers was waiting.
The squad continued preparing.
There were jokes during meals.
Lingard teased Trippier about another attempted assist.
Rooney offered tactical opinions that sometimes became arguments.
Sterling joked about how quickly he intended to run at Croatia's defenders.
Maguire claimed he was going to score from a corner.
Stones immediately asked him how many times he had said that.
"Enough times for it to happen."
Alli laughed.
"That's not how football works."
"It should."
Even Southgate occasionally smiled when he heard them.
The atmosphere was serious, but it wasn't joyless.
They were still friends.
Still teammates.
Still a group of people who had travelled through an extraordinary tournament together.
And that mattered.
Because when the final arrived, they would need more than tactics.
They would need each other.
As the final training sessions drew closer to completion, the outside world became louder.
Moscow filled with supporters.
England flags appeared beside Croatian colours.
Songs echoed through streets.
Journalists spoke live from outside hotels.
Former internationals offered predictions.
Every possible tactical battle was dissected.
Who would control midfield?
Could England contain Croatia's possession?
Would Kane drop deep?
Could Francesco find space?
Would Croatia's experience prove decisive?
Could England's younger legs withstand the pressure?
Nobody knew.
Soon, there would be no more questions.
Only ninety minutes.
Perhaps more.
One final match.
One final opponent.
One trophy.
After the last full tactical session before the final, Francesco remained on the training ground for a few minutes.
The rest of the squad had begun heading inside.
Henderson called from the doorway.
"You coming?"
"In a minute."
Francesco stood alone.
The evening light stretched across the pitch.
He looked toward the horizon.
Moscow was somewhere beyond the training ground.
Beyond that was the stadium.
Beyond that was the final.
He thought about Japan.
Brazil.
France.
The celebrations.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
The moments when England had looked close to falling apart and somehow remained standing.
Now there was nowhere else to go.
No quarter-final.
No semi-final.
No next match after this one.
This was the end of the road.
The World Cup had narrowed itself down to two teams.
England.
Croatia.
And one final ninety minutes stood between Francesco and the greatest prize in football.
He tightened his jaw slightly.
Then he turned toward the dressing room.
Henderson was still waiting.
Francesco smiled.
"Coming."
They walked inside together.
Outside, Moscow continued to roar.
Supporters were arriving.
Flags were being raised and cameras were being positioned, as the world was watching.
__________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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, FA Cup 2016/2017, 2016/2017 Champions League, 2017/2018 Carabao Cup, Premier League 2017/2018, FA Cup 2017/2018, and Champions League 2017/2018.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 59
Goal: 76
Assist: 6
MOTM: 7
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 10
Goal: 12
Assist: 1
MOTM: 6
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