And when his phone buzzed again with a notification — this one from Thierry Henry himself, a simple message that read: "Believe, Francesco. You already have everything you need." — he knew the gauntlet had been well and truly thrown.
The days passed in a blur — training sessions, recovery, the hum of press noise that seemed louder now than at any other point in the season. Every time Francesco checked his phone, there was something new: another headline, another pundit weighing in, another reminder that Arsenal were suddenly, improbably, ninety minutes away from a Champions League final.
But football doesn't let you think too far ahead. The rhythm of the season demanded focus, one game at a time, even when everyone's minds were already halfway in Munich.
On April 30th, Arsenal hosted Norwich City at the Emirates. It wasn't glamorous, and it wasn't the kind of match that would be etched into anyone's memory — except maybe for Danny Welbeck's, who ended up the hero.
Wenger had made it clear all week: rotation was necessary. The semi-final second leg in Munich was too important. So when the team sheets dropped, it was a mix of youth and experience, a shuffled deck designed to conserve energy while still taking care of business. No Özil. No Sánchez. Francesco himself started on the bench, wrapped in a jacket, watching the pitch with the nervous impatience of someone whose body wanted to be out there but whose mind knew better.
The game itself was cagey. Norwich defended deep, happy to frustrate, and Arsenal's rhythm never really clicked. The crowd grew restless at times, groans rising with every misplaced pass, every wasted attack. But then, in the 59th minute, it happened.
Bellerín cut inside, whipping a cross into the box. Giroud knocked it down, and Welbeck, sharp and instinctive, pounced. The ball bulged the net, the Emirates roared in relief, and just like that, Arsenal were 1–0 up.
It stayed that way until full-time. Not dominant, not dazzling — but three points all the same. And when the whistle blew, the players didn't celebrate wildly. They clapped the fans, exchanged handshakes, and walked off with the quiet understanding that the real battle was still to come.
For Francesco, watching from the sidelines, it was both frustrating and reassuring. He wanted to be out there, to feel the rhythm of the ball at his feet, the adrenaline of competition. But at the same time, he understood why Wenger had spared him. His legs needed to be fresh. His lungs needed to be full. Munich demanded everything.
May 2nd arrived like a drumbeat, steady and ominous.
The morning light over Colney training ground felt sharper, cleaner somehow — as if the air itself knew the stakes. The players gathered one by one, bags slung over shoulders, headphones around necks, each lost in their own bubble of focus.
Francesco arrived early, as he often did. His BMW X5 rolled into the car park, the familiar hum of the engine grounding him in the normalcy of routine. But when he stepped out, suitcase in hand, there was a different kind of electricity in the air. This wasn't just another away trip. This was Munich. This was the Allianz Arena. This was the second leg of the Champions League semi-final.
He spotted Ramsey first, leaning against his car with a coffee in hand, scrolling on his phone. Ramsey looked up, smirk tugging at his lips.
"Morning, superstar. Ready to take down the Germans again?"
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "One game at a time, Rambo. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Come on," Ramsey teased. "We've got them rattled already. Two goals at the Emirates? They know what's coming."
"Yeah," Francesco said, though his tone was more measured. "But it's the Allianz. It's Bayern. They won't go down easy."
Ramsey clapped him on the shoulder. "That's why we've got you."
Inside the training facility, the mood was a strange mix of tension and levity. Some players cracked jokes, trying to keep things light. Others sat in silence, earbuds in, lost in playlists that no one else could hear. Wenger floated through it all like a calm presence, his voice low but steady whenever he spoke, reminding them of the details, the plan, the focus required.
After a light recovery session and tactical briefing, the squad regrouped in the lounge. Bags were lined up, kit prepared, the logistics already in motion. The team bus was waiting outside, engine purring like a patient beast.
As they filed out, fans had already gathered at the gates — red and white scarves, banners, chants rising into the cool spring air. "Arsenal! Arsenal!" they sang, voices carrying over the car park as the players climbed aboard the bus.
Francesco paused before stepping on, turning to glance back. He saw kids on their parents' shoulders, waving signs with his name scrawled across them. One read: "Light the Spark, Francesco!"
He smiled despite himself, lifting a hand in acknowledgment. The roar that came back was louder than he expected.
The ride to the airport was a quiet one. Players spread out in their seats, some chatting softly, others napping, others glued to their phones. Francesco sat near the middle, headphones in but no music playing. He liked the illusion of it — it gave him space to think.
Out the window, the countryside blurred past. He imagined the Allianz, the sea of red that would greet them, the pressure of ninety thousand voices. He imagined Neuer, towering in goal, Lewandowski lurking in the box, Müller ghosting into space. And he imagined himself, ball at his feet, the weight of history on his shoulders.
When they reached the airport, everything was efficient. Straight through private security, straight onto the waiting plane. Cameras flashed as they boarded, journalists calling out questions that went unanswered.
On the plane, Francesco found himself seated next to Alexis Sánchez. The Chilean was restless, tapping his foot, scrolling through clips on his tablet — Bayern's defensive shape, Neuer's tendencies, Lahm's positioning.
"You ever switch off?" Francesco asked, half-amused.
Sánchez grinned without looking up. "Not when it's Bayern. You can't sleep on them, hermano. One second, you blink, and it's over."
Francesco nodded, settling back into his seat. "You think we can do it?"
Sánchez finally looked at him, eyes sharp, unwavering. "We already did half the job. Now we finish it. Don't think about them. Think about us."
The words stuck with him. Think about us.
The flight itself was uneventful. Players dozed, watched films, read books. Wenger paced the aisle occasionally, checking in with small words of encouragement. By the time they descended into Munich, the mood had crystallized into something steely. Nerves, yes — but also belief.
As the bus pulled away from the airport toward their hotel, Francesco looked out at the city. Munich was beautiful, but he barely saw it. All he could picture was the Allianz, glowing like a spaceship, waiting for them.
That night in the hotel, after dinner and meetings, Francesco sat alone in his room. Leah had messaged him earlier, a simple: "I'll be watching. Proud of you already." He stared at those words longer than he cared to admit, letting them sink into the quiet of the room.
Then, unable to sit still, he wandered down the hall. He found Özil in the lounge, tea in hand, calm as ever.
"Can't sleep?" Özil asked, without looking up.
"Not really," Francesco admitted.
Özil gestured for him to sit. "First time's always like that. Semi-final, Allianz, the whole world watching. Your mind won't stop spinning."
"Exactly," Francesco said. "Feels like… too much sometimes."
Özil smiled faintly. "Then don't carry it all. Just carry your part. Do your job, trust the rest. That's how we win."
Francesco nodded slowly. It sounded simple, but coming from someone who'd been there, who'd stood in Madrid with Ronaldo and lifted trophies, it carried weight.
When he finally returned to his room, sleep came easier. Not because the nerves had vanished, but because he had something steadier to hold onto.
The morning came softly, sunlight pushing through the hotel curtains like a hesitant intruder. Francesco stirred awake before his alarm even had the chance to ring, his body trained now to rise early, no matter how much his mind might have wished for another hour of rest. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of Munich outside—the occasional car, the muffled footsteps of pedestrians far below. It was a normal city morning, but in his chest, nothing about it felt normal.
He swung his legs off the bed, ran a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. Today wasn't a day for lingering. Today was the kind of day that could etch itself into memory forever.
By the time he stepped into the hotel's dining area, the place was already alive with the low murmur of voices, the scrape of cutlery, the smell of coffee and toasted bread. Players were scattered across tables in little clusters, some wide awake and joking, others bleary-eyed and quiet. The staff had set up a long buffet—eggs, fruit, porridge, cold meats, the usual assortment of options designed to fuel athletes without weighing them down.
Francesco spotted Aaron Ramsey and Héctor Bellerín at one table, deep in conversation over their plates, and slid into a seat across from them.
"Morning," Ramsey greeted, eyes still heavy but smile warm.
"Morning," Francesco returned, grabbing a bowl of oatmeal and some berries.
Bellerín smirked. "You look too awake for someone who barely slept."
Francesco chuckled, shaking his head. "Guess I'm running on adrenaline already."
It was true—there was a current running under his skin, something that made everything sharper, from the taste of his coffee to the sound of laughter from the other side of the room.
The breakfast wasn't long. No one lingered much; nerves had a way of cutting appetites shorter than usual. Still, there was comfort in the ritual, in sitting together, in small talk about nothing important. Ramsey complained about his coffee being too strong. Bellerín argued about music, as he always did. Sánchez wandered by with a plate stacked higher than anyone else's, grinning like he knew something no one else did.
Afterwards, the squad drifted towards the hotel gym, where a light morning session had been set up. It wasn't anything intense—just stretching, some cardio to loosen the legs, mobility work. But stepping into that space, seeing the rows of machines, the mirrored walls, the mats already laid out, made the air shift. The gym wasn't a place for nerves. It was a place to ground yourself in movement, in the simple language of your body.
Francesco jogged lightly on a treadmill, earbuds in but no music playing again. He liked the quiet thud of his feet, the rhythm of breath syncing with motion. Around him, players worked in their own ways. Giroud, shirt already off, was lifting light weights, checking his form in the mirror. Koscielny was on a bike, legs spinning steadily, eyes closed in focus. Walcott and Oxlade-Chamberlain were stretching together, laughing about something that sounded like an inside joke from training.
Wenger had always insisted mornings like this were about balance—wake up the body, but don't drain it. Feel sharp without feeling heavy. And as Francesco moved through the session, he felt that balance click into place. His muscles loosened, the stiffness of sleep faded, and the restless energy in his chest settled into something steadier.
By the time lunch rolled around, the team had begun to settle into the rhythm of match day. The dining room was quieter this time, conversations more clipped, eyes more focused. Pasta, chicken, vegetables—nothing fancy, just the kind of fuel that could carry them into ninety minutes of battle.
Afterwards came the part Francesco always found the hardest: the wait. The afternoon stretched out long and slow, like the hours were dragging their feet. Some players retreated to their rooms for naps. Others stayed downstairs, watching television or flicking through their phones. Francesco tried to read, but the words on the page kept slipping away, replaced by flashes of the Allianz, by the roar of a crowd that hadn't even assembled yet.
It was a relief when the call came to gather in the hotel meeting room for the tactical briefing.
The space was simple—rows of chairs facing a projector screen, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the pauses between Wenger's words. But when the manager stepped to the front, the atmosphere shifted. Wenger didn't raise his voice, didn't bark or dramatize. He spoke the way he always did: calm, precise, with a steadiness that made even the storm outside feel like something that could be weathered.
"Bayern will come at us," he said, pointer in hand, tapping at a freeze-frame of their press. "They will press high, they will force mistakes. Our job is to stay compact, to play with intelligence. Not to panic."
He clicked to another slide. Lewandowski's face filled the screen.
"He drops deep here. If you follow too far, space opens behind. We cannot allow him to drag us out of position."
Another click—Müller, ghosting into the box.
"He will not stop moving. You must track him. Do not assume he is gone because you do not see him. He thrives in the blind spots."
And then another: Neuer, arms wide, eyes fierce.
"He is more than a goalkeeper. He is their eleventh outfield player. He will sweep, he will step high, he will try to intimidate. Do not fear him. Trust your ability."
Francesco sat forward in his chair, absorbing every word, every clip. He felt the room tighten as the minutes passed, the seriousness settling like armor on each of them. Wenger finished not with fireworks, but with something quieter:
"You earned the right to be here. Do not play with fear. Play with courage. Play with intelligence. And play for each other."
The players nodded, some murmuring agreements under their breath. By the time they filed out of the room, the nervous energy had shifted into something harder, more focused.
The hours ticked by, until the clock struck 6:15 PM.
Downstairs, bags were lined up neatly, the kit staff working with their usual quiet efficiency. Players zipped up jackets, adjusted headphones, checked that nothing was left behind. The bus was waiting outside, its engine humming low, lights glowing against the early evening sky.
The air was crisp as they stepped out, greeted again by clusters of fans who had somehow found the hotel. Their cheers pierced through the night, chants rising up as the players climbed aboard. Francesco caught sight of one sign, hastily written but held high: "Fear None. Believe."
He carried that with him as he settled into his seat on the bus. The ride was quiet, more so than usual. The city moved past them in streaks of light and shadow, but all eyes were ahead, toward the Allianz.
And then it appeared.
The stadium rose on the horizon like something out of a dream—its glowing panels shifting in color, vast and otherworldly, a spaceship landed in the heart of Munich. Even from the distance, its presence was overwhelming. Francesco felt his chest tighten, his pulse quicken. He wasn't sure if it was nerves or awe. Maybe both.
The bus pulled into the players' entrance, security tight, cameras flashing as they disembarked. Inside, the corridors were sleek, clinical, every step echoing on the polished floors.
They entered the dressing room, a wide space already prepared with neatly hung shirts, boots lined up, water bottles stacked. The atmosphere inside was hushed, the kind of silence that buzzed with anticipation.
Francesco slipped into his seat, eyes flicking to the shirt with his name, his number. For a moment he let himself just look at it, at the simplicity of it, and the weight it carried.
Then came the signal: time to change into training kits. The room stirred to life—zippers, the rustle of fabric, boots pulled on, laces tied. Players moved with the economy of habit, the ritual of countless matches distilled into this one moment.
And then they stepped out.
The tunnel was cool, the hum of the stadium already audible above them. As they emerged onto the pitch, the Allianz spread out in front of them in full, breathtaking scope—rows upon rows of red seats, banners draped, chants beginning to swell as fans trickled in.
Warm-up began with simple drills—stretches, jogging, passing exercises to get the blood flowing. Francesco jogged across the grass, the surface perfect under his boots, the lights bright overhead. He glanced around, taking it all in—the size of it, the sound of it, the fact that in less than an hour this place would be a cauldron.
The warm-up ended almost too soon, a blur of sprints, rondos, and quick passing drills meant to wake the body, sharpen the mind, and accustom everyone to the pitch beneath their boots. The players jogged toward the tunnel, the noise of the Allianz already swelling into something bigger than sound—it was pressure, it was expectation, it was ninety thousand throats ready to roar.
Inside, the dressing room felt different now. The buzz of chatter from earlier was gone, replaced by a heavier quiet. The air smelled faintly of liniment and freshly laundered shirts. Each kit hung in its place, pristine and waiting, almost glowing under the fluorescent lights.
Francesco found his seat again, the white Arsenal shirt with his name and the captain's armband placed neatly on top. He sat for a moment before touching it, letting the weight of the moment roll over him. Captain. Striker. Tonight wasn't just about playing—it was about leading.
Around him, teammates moved with deliberate calm. Sánchez tugged at his socks, headphones off now, focus etched into his features. Özil sat in silence, eyes half-closed, as if running the game in his mind already. Koscielny tightened his boots with the same intensity he always had, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.
Then Wenger stepped forward.
The room stilled as soon as he cleared his throat. He didn't have to raise his voice. He never did. His presence was enough to command attention.
"Gentlemen," he began, his French accent soft but firm, "you have prepared for this moment. Every training session, every match, every lesson this season has led you here. Tonight, you face Bayern in their fortress. But remember—it is only a stadium, it is only grass, it is only a game of football. Do not let the atmosphere play against you. Let it fuel you."
He turned toward the whiteboard, where the formation was already drawn out. The marker tapped against the magnets as he spoke.
"We play 4-2-3-1. Petr, in goal. Steady hands, steady heart." His eyes flicked to Cech, who gave a small nod, his expression unreadable behind years of experience.
"Defense—Nacho left, Virgil and Laurent in the center, Héctor on the right. Compact, disciplined. They will press, they will try to isolate you one-on-one. Communication is everything. Do not leave each other exposed."
Monreal, Van Dijk, Koscielny, and Bellerín exchanged brief glances, a quiet bond solidifying.
"In midfield, Aaron and N'Golo. You are our engine, our shield. Aaron, look to break lines when the space opens. N'Golo, you know your task—cover every blade of grass, disrupt, recover, transition."
Kanté's eyes gleamed, calm but fierce. Ramsey straightened, shoulders rolling back, already picturing the battles to come.
"Mesut," Wenger continued, turning to the German playmaker, "you will float. Find the spaces between their lines. Draw them out, exploit their gaps. Be brave, be decisive."
Özil gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, but his gaze sharpened.
"On the wings—Alexis left, Theo right. You are our fire. Stretch them, pin them back, force their full-backs to think twice before joining the attack. When the chance comes, do not hesitate."
Sánchez cracked his knuckles, the restless energy in him barely contained. Walcott, quieter, simply bowed his head in focus.
"And at the front…" Wenger's eyes landed on Francesco.
"…Francesco leads the line. And tonight, he wears the armband."
The room seemed to tilt for a moment, every eye flicking toward him. Francesco swallowed, but didn't drop Wenger's gaze.
"You are not alone," Wenger continued. "You are the tip of the spear, yes, but behind you, beside you, around you—this team will fight. Lead with courage. Lead with intelligence. Lead with the spirit you have shown since you arrived here. Remember: the armband is not weight. It is wings."
Francesco felt something settle inside him at those words. Not pressure. Not fear. Something steadier. Responsibility, yes—but also belief.
Wenger's hand moved to the final magnets on the board.
"The substitutes," he said. "David, Per, Kieran, Francis, Alex Iwobi, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, Olivier. You may not all play tonight. But remember—this team is not eleven men. It is twenty-five. We succeed together. We fail together. Stay ready. Stay sharp."
The substitutes nodded, some bouncing their legs in nervous energy, others still as statues. Giroud cracked a grin, but there was steel behind it.
Wenger set the marker down, then turned back to the players, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate.
"Bayern will test you. They will try to overwhelm you. But we are Arsenal. We do not play with fear. We play with conviction. With intelligence. With heart. Look around this room. Look into the eyes of your brothers. You do not walk onto that pitch alone. You carry them, and they carry you. And together, we will make history."
Silence followed, the kind of silence that carried weight, thicker than noise.
Then, one by one, the players rose. Shirts slipped over shoulders, socks rolled up, boots tightened. The sound of laces being pulled taut filled the room like a quiet drumbeat.
Francesco pulled on his kit slowly, deliberately. The fabric clung cool against his skin, the badge heavy on his chest, the armband waiting beside him like a promise. When he slid it onto his arm, he flexed his fist, feeling the band tighten against his bicep.
Captain.
Cech was the first fully ready, gloves on, pacing slowly in the corner. Koscielny stood next to him, head bowed for a moment of silent focus. Sánchez muttered under his breath in Spanish, bouncing on his toes. Walcott rubbed his hands together, blowing into them, as though already feeling the cold air outside.
Francesco stood, kit complete, boots snug, armband in place. He looked around the room—at Ramsey's determined face, at Özil's quiet calm, at Koscielny's steel, at Sánchez's fire—and felt a surge of something deeper than adrenaline.
This wasn't just football. This was legacy.
The call came from the tunnel.
"Five minutes."
The players rose as one, the sound of boots on the tiled floor echoing in unison. Wenger didn't say anything more. He didn't need to. His words were already in their blood.
Francesco adjusted the armband one last time, then led the team toward the tunnel, his heart pounding in rhythm with every step.
The tunnel was tight, suffused with that peculiar mix of leather polish, damp fabric, and the faint metallic tang of nervous sweat. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Arsenal's red-and-white shirts lined up neatly on one side, Bayern Munich's red on the other, like opposing armies standing shoulder to shoulder before stepping onto a battlefield. The air in there had a pulse of its own—tension so thick it felt like you could touch it.
Francesco stood at the front of Arsenal's line, the armband snug around his bicep, chest rising and falling with deliberate calm. Just a few feet away, Philipp Lahm mirrored his stance, Bayern's captain with that quiet, assured poise that only years of lifting trophies could grant. Their eyes met briefly—not hostile, not friendly either, just a silent acknowledgment: we're the ones who carry this.
The referee, flanked by his assistants, gave a short nod. "Alright, gentlemen."
The signal.
The two lines began their march, cleats clattering on the tunnel floor, a rhythm that echoed like drums in a parade. And then—sunlight, sound, and spectacle swallowed them whole.
The Allianz Arena erupted. Ninety thousand voices merged into one overwhelming roar, a sea of red and white flags thrashing in the stands. And then, cutting through it all like a tide, came the music.
The Champions League anthem.
Majestic. Unyielding. That hymn that seemed to turn men into giants and football into something bigger than sport. Francesco felt his throat tighten as the anthem swelled, reverberating through the bones of the stadium. He stood tall, head up, listening as if every note was a vow. Tonight, he was captain. Tonight, the anthem wasn't just sound—it was responsibility carved into song.
Both teams stood side by side, hands clasped behind their backs. Cameras swept across them, pausing on faces that millions of viewers around the world would study for hints of nerves or defiance. The anthem reached its crescendo, then faded into the roar of the crowd again.
One by one, they shook hands with the referees, then with each other. Lahm's grip was firm, respectful. Neuer's handshake came with a steady look—no words, just that cold keeper's assurance. Lewandowski's clasp lingered an extra second, his eyes narrowing with competitive fire. Francesco held each handshake with composure, answering gaze for gaze, telling them all silently: I'm here. We're here. Arsenal are here.
The formalities ended with the teams lining up for the ceremonial starting eleven photo. The photographers crouched, cameras flashing in bursts of light. Francesco knelt in the front row beside Özil and Sánchez, his armband deliberately visible, jaw set in quiet determination. He could hear the shutters, the announcer's booming voice, the fans chanting already—but for a fleeting second, he let himself take in the image. This would be a picture etched into history, one way or another.
Then it was time for the captains' ritual. Francesco walked with Lahm and the referee toward the center circle. The pitch glistened under the floodlights, the grass immaculate, every blade a stage for chaos yet to unfold.
The referee produced a coin. "Philipp, Francesco—coin toss."
Lahm called it in calm German, the coin spun, fell, and glinted as the referee caught it. Bayern won. Lahm, expression unchanged, gestured toward kick-off. Bayern would start.
Francesco nodded, no complaint, no reaction. Just acceptance. His role wasn't to lament—it was to answer.
They shook hands once more, then parted. Lahm jogged back to his men, gathering them into formation. Francesco turned toward his own, clapping his hands sharply, a sound that cut even through the din of the stadium.
"Together!" he barked, voice raw with intent. "Every tackle, every run—together!"
The whistle blew.
Kick-off.
And like that, the storm began.
The opening twenty minutes were everything they had expected, everything they had feared, and yet everything they had prepared for. Bayern came out as Bayern always did at home—ferocious, suffocating, relentless. Lewandowski tested Van Dijk within the first two minutes, backing into him, trying to spin onto a low pass, but Virgil stood his ground, muscling him off before calmly finding Koscielny. The Arsenal fans in their corner erupted, their voices a tiny pocket of defiance in a sea of red.
But Bayern didn't relent. Douglas Costa was electric down the left, jinking past Monreal and whipping in a cross that forced Koscielny into a desperate sliding clearance. Moments later, Müller ghosted into the box, timing his run perfectly onto a chipped ball from Alonso—but Petr Čech stretched every inch of his frame to parry the header wide, his helmet nearly brushing the post as he crashed into the turf.
The save was met with a roar from the Arsenal bench, but Bayern pressed again. Another attack, this time down the right—Ribery cutting inside, with the curl unleashed. For a second, time seemed to slow, the ball arcing toward the far corner. But Čech was there again, fingertips straining, pushing it wide.
The Arsenal captain exhaled, sprinting back into position, shouting at his teammates: "Stay tight! Compact!"
Three times in twenty minutes, Čech had denied them. And between those saves, it wasn't just him. Van Dijk threw his body in front of Lewandowski's volley like a man possessed, the ball ricocheting painfully off his thigh. Koscielny clattered into Müller with a perfectly timed challenge that left the German sprawling but dispossessed. Monreal intercepted a dangerous cutback, sliding low, his boot nicking the ball away just before Costa could strike.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't easy. It was survival. Arsenal were playing with teeth clenched and lungs burning, bodies slamming into blocks, tackles crunching like gunshots under the floodlights. Every duel mattered. Every clearance was cheered like a goal by the away fans.
And yet, amid the storm, Francesco could feel something building. Something different. Bayern were throwing everything at them—but Arsenal were not breaking. Every save, every block, every interception was a seed of belief planted in their chests.
Francesco dropped deep at times, chasing down passes, harrying Bayern's defenders, even sliding into a tackle on Alaba that drew cheers from his teammates. His shirt was damp already, breath heavy, but his mind clear.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 52
Goal: 72
Assist: 10
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9