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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
At Arsenal, excellence was never supposed to feel surprising.
The applause lingered long after Arsène Wenger finished speaking.
Not the thunderous roar of the Emirates.
Something warmer than that.
The private kind.
The kind shared between men who had worked, suffered, and ultimately delivered together.
It rolled around the dressing room in waves with boots tapping against tiled floors, hands slapping lockers, Walker somehow managing to clap loud enough for three people.
Francesco sat back against the bench, still catching his breath, a towel draped across his shoulders. Sweat cooled against his skin now, leaving behind that satisfying heaviness only a properly completed football match could provide.
Two goals.
Three points.
Another clean sheet.
Another afternoon where Arsenal had looked every bit the side everyone feared they might become.
Walker was still discussing his recovery run.
Naturally.
"I'm telling you," he insisted, gesturing animatedly at nobody in particular, "the angle was perfect. Textbook. Coaches will use that in training videos."
Robertson snorted from across the room.
"Aye, under the chapter titled 'How Not To Pull A Hamstring Celebrating Your Own Sprint.'"
Laughter rippled through the squad.
Walker pointed accusingly.
"You're jealous because I'm rapid."
"I'm jealous because you can talk without inhaling."
"That's talent."
"That's medical concern."
Even Wenger, already halfway to the door, allowed himself the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He knew better than to interrupt this sort of thing.
Winning made footballers unbearable.
It also made them wonderful.
Francesco had just begun unlacing his boots when a knock came at the dressing room entrance.
Not the casual knock of staff.
More official.
Measured.
A club liaison stepped inside, followed by two representatives from the Football Association, both wearing dark suits and expressions that suggested they had spent their entire careers standing in corridors.
"Francesco," the liaison said, smiling. "They need you for the Man of the Match presentation and the live interview."
Walker gasped theatrically.
"No way. Who won?"
Giroud threw a sock at him.
"It was close."
"I thought my recovery run had it."
"You are a deeply tiring person," Mustafi informed him.
Francesco rose, shaking his head with a grin.
"I'll be back."
"Bring the trophy," Alexis called.
"Bring snacks," added Walcott.
"Bring a personality for Mesut," Walker offered.
Özil, without even looking up, replied, "I had one. I lent it to you."
The room erupted.
Walker placed a hand over his heart.
"That hurt."
"Good."
Francesco slipped his boots back on and followed the FA staff out into the corridor.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
Inside the dressing room, everything was noise and steam and laughter.
Outside, the stadium had taken on that post-match hum with a thousand conversations overlapping, footsteps echoing through concrete tunnels, distant music drifting down from hospitality lounges.
The kind of sound that only existed after a home win.
As they walked toward the tunnel interview area, Francesco could still hear Arsenal supporters singing somewhere high above.
His name floated faintly through the corridors.
That never got old.
It never should.
The presentation area had already been set up.
Backdrop in place.
Cameras positioned.
Microphones adjusted.
A Premier League-branded podium stood ready, the Man of the Match trophy resting atop it under the bright television lights.
It looked polished enough to blind someone.
A Sky Sports producer hurried over.
"Francesco, congratulations. Quick interview first, then the presentation."
"Sounds good."
"Standard questions. Try not to insult anyone."
"No promises."
She laughed.
"Perfect."
Moments later, the presenter stepped forward, microphone in hand, his smile polished by years of television.
"And here he is—the man of the moment. Two goals, a captain's display, and another brilliant afternoon for Arsenal. Francesco Lee."
The nearby Arsenal supporters still lingering inside the stadium cheered loudly.
Francesco stepped into frame, accepting the microphone.
The trophy sat gleaming beside him.
"Francesco," the presenter began, "another superb win, and another outstanding performance from yourself. How much did you enjoy that one?"
Francesco glanced toward the pitch, where groundsmen had already begun their quiet work.
"A lot. Matches like that are why you play football. We started well, controlled the game, and never really let them settle. Everyone contributed. When the team performs like that, individual moments become much easier."
"Your free kick was exceptional."
Francesco smiled.
"I was quite fond of it myself."
That drew a laugh.
"Did you always know it was in?"
"Honestly? The moment it left my foot, yes. Sometimes you hit one and immediately know the goalkeeper is just there for decoration."
"Mesut seemed confident beforehand."
"He predicted the top corner."
"Did he specify which one?"
"The expensive one."
Even the interviewer laughed at that.
"Your partnership with him continues to flourish."
"It helps when he sees passes the rest of us don't even realise exist. Playing with Mesut is a bit like cheating, really."
"Arsenal look in tremendous form right now. How confident is the dressing room?"
Francesco considered the question carefully.
"Confidence is important, but consistency is more important. We're playing well, yes, but there's a long way to go. We know what we're capable of. The challenge is proving it every week."
"A captain's answer."
"I've had practice."
"And finally, your supporters were chanting your name throughout the second half. What does that mean to you?"
That one landed deeper.
Francesco looked briefly toward the North Bank.
"It means everything. They support us through every moment from the good, the bad, the stressful, and sometimes Kyle Walker's passing. You never take that for granted."
Another ripple of laughter.
"Congratulations, Francesco. Your Man of the Match."
The trophy was handed over, cool and solid in his hands.
The cameras flashed.
Supporters applauded.
It was only a small award in the grand scheme of a season, but football was built on small moments stitched together.
And this had been a very good one.
After a few photographs and one last wave toward the nearby fans, Francesco handed the trophy to a club attendant for safekeeping and made his way back through the tunnel.
The adrenaline was fading now.
Fatigue was beginning to settle in.
The good kind.
The earned kind.
Back in the dressing room, Walker spotted him immediately.
"There he is!"
"Did you thank me in your speech?"
"There was no speech."
"Missed opportunity."
Giroud took one look at the trophy and nodded approvingly.
"Reasonable choice."
"Strong competition."
"Very."
Alexis was halfway through removing tape from his wrists.
"You should have mentioned my pressing."
"I had a strict time limit."
"That's fair."
Francesco finally headed toward the showers, the steam already filling the tiled room.
There were few better feelings in football.
Hot water pounding against sore muscles.
Noise muted behind the spray.
A few quiet minutes where the world narrowed to recovery and reflection.
He replayed the free kick in his mind.
The way the ball had climbed.
The way the crowd had inhaled.
The explosion as it hit the net.
Moments like that were addictive.
That was the problem.
And the beauty.
By the time he finished, the dressing room had thinned considerably. Some players were already dressed. Others were still lingering, enjoying the afterglow of victory.
Francesco pulled on the Arsenal travel jumpsuit, fitted, impossibly comfortable in the way only expensive club-issued clothing could be.
He zipped it halfway, adjusted the sleeves, and glanced up just as Mesut emerged from his own locker area looking, as always, absurdly composed.
"How do you look fresh after ninety minutes?" Francesco asked.
Mesut shrugged.
"Efficient movement."
"You barely sweat."
"That is also efficient."
"I'm reporting you to science."
"It has tried."
Before Francesco could respond, Wenger reappeared at the dressing room entrance.
"Francesco. Mesut."
Both looked up immediately.
"The press conference."
Walker whistled.
"Ooh, teacher's favourites."
Wenger raised an eyebrow.
"Kyle."
"Yes, boss?"
"You are not invited."
"Harsh but understandable."
Robertson patted Walker's shoulder.
"He'll recover. He's got excellent sprinting stamina."
That earned another round of laughter.
Francesco grabbed a bottle of water, while Mesut adjusted his jacket with the concentration of a surgeon.
Together, they followed Wenger through the maze of Emirates corridors.
There was something different about walking alongside Wenger after a performance like that.
A quiet pride.
Not spoken.
Not necessary.
The manager moved with his usual measured pace, hands tucked lightly into his coat pockets.
"You both played very well," he said after a moment.
Mesut nodded.
"Thank you."
Francesco glanced sideways.
"We made your job easy today."
Wenger gave the smallest smile.
"You rarely make anything easy."
"That sounds more accurate."
"It is."
As they approached the media room, the noise became apparent.
Journalists talking over one another.
Camera shutters clicking.
The low electronic hum of broadcasting equipment.
A club media officer opened the door, and the three men stepped inside.
Flashbulbs erupted immediately.
Dozens of reporters filled the room, notebooks open, microphones ready.
The Arsenal crest stood prominently behind the long table at the front.
Wenger took the center seat.
Francesco sat to his right.
Mesut to his left.
A neat symmetry.
Wenger folded his hands.
Mesut looked serene.
Francesco took a sip of water and resisted the urge to make eye contact with the particularly eager journalist already leaning halfway out of his chair.
The press officer began.
"We'll start with questions for Arsène, Francesco, and Mesut."
Straight away, hands shot up.
The first question came from a veteran football correspondent.
"Arsène, four goals, a clean sheet, and complete control. Is that as good as your side has played this season?"
Wenger leaned toward the microphone.
"It was a very complete performance, yes. We were focused, disciplined, and efficient. Bournemouth are a good side, but we did not allow them to impose their game. That is always satisfying."
Another hand.
"Francesco, two goals today, including a magnificent free kick. Are you playing the best football of your career?"
Francesco smiled.
"I hope not."
That got a laugh.
"There's always room to improve. I feel good physically, mentally, and the team is performing very well. As a forward, that's the environment you want."
A Spanish journalist directed the next question toward Mesut.
"Mesut, another assist today. How much do you enjoy playing behind Francesco?"
Mesut glanced at Francesco before answering.
"He makes good runs. Usually where I want him to be."
"Usually?"
"Sometimes he runs somewhere else."
"I like variety," Francesco said.
Mesut nodded solemnly.
"It can be inconvenient."
The room laughed.
The questions kept coming.
About the title race.
About Arsenal's form.
About the defensive solidity provided by Van Dijk and Koscielny.
About Kanté, whose ability to appear everywhere continued to confuse modern science.
Then came the inevitable.
"Francesco, your free kick technique. Who taught you?"
Francesco considered that.
"A lot of missed attempts, mostly."
"Anyone you studied?"
"Thierry Henry. David Beckham. Juninho. Also a few YouTube compilations when nobody was looking."
Wenger shook his head, amused.
"That is modern coaching."
A reporter from Germany asked Mesut whether this Arsenal side could win the Premier League.
Mesut answered without hesitation.
"Yes."
Simple.
Direct.
Entirely Mesut.
Francesco added, "Believing you can is the minimum requirement."
Wenger nodded approvingly.
Another reporter raised a hand.
"Francesco, there was a moment after your substitution when the crowd sang your name for nearly two minutes straight. What goes through your mind hearing that?"
He paused.
Because that one mattered.
"You remember why you started playing. Before contracts, before cameras, before all of this. Football is about connection. When supporters sing your name, you feel that connection in the strongest possible way."
A murmur of appreciation moved through the room.
Then, inevitably, someone asked about Tottenham.
Because of course they did.
"Arsenal fans were heard singing about Spurs late in the match. Any thoughts?"
Francesco deadpanned.
"They seem very passionate."
Even Wenger laughed.
The room erupted.
Mesut actually grinned openly, which was rare enough to qualify as a public event.
The final few questions focused on the upcoming fixtures.
Rotation.
Fitness.
Maintaining momentum.
Wenger handled those with the precision of a man who had been answering the same questions for two decades and still somehow managed to remain polite.
Eventually, the press officer signaled for one last question.
A young journalist, probably early in his career, stood nervously.
"For all three of you, what is the biggest strength of this Arsenal team right now?"
Wenger answered first.
"Unity."
Mesut followed.
"Understanding."
Francesco thought for a second.
"Hunger."
The three words hung there together.
Unity.
Understanding.
Hunger.
Not a bad summary.
The press officer thanked everyone, and the room burst into movement.
Chairs scraped.
Reporters shouted final questions that nobody intended to answer.
Cameras clicked one last time.
Wenger stood first.
"Well done," he said quietly to both players.
Mesut rose smoothly.
Francesco finished his water.
As they walked back toward the dressing room, the corridors were quieter now.
Most supporters had gone.
The stadium was settling into evening.
Mesut glanced over.
"You handled the Tottenham question well."
"I'm very diplomatic."
"You are many things."
"That sounds familiar."
"It should."
They reached the dressing room door.
Inside, the music had resumed.
Walker was apparently explaining aerodynamics to Giroud using a towel and an orange.
No one seemed entirely convinced.
Francesco stepped back into the warmth, the laughter, the familiar chaos of his team.
The dressing room still buzzed when Francesco and Mesut stepped back inside.
That immediate wave of warmth, noise, and familiar nonsense hit them like it always did.
Music thumped from the speakers.
Someone had changed the playlist again, which meant Alexis was probably unhappy about it.
Walker was indeed attempting to explain aerodynamics to Giroud using a towel, an orange, and what looked suspiciously like one of Mustafi's socks.
"This," Walker declared with the authority of a man who had absolutely no authority on the subject, "is airflow."
Giroud narrowed his eyes at the orange.
"It is fruit."
"It is science."
"It is citrus."
Robertson, already dressed and halfway through a protein shake, shook his head.
"I went to school with lads exactly like you."
"And?"
"They are all mechanics now."
"That sounds successful."
"None of them explain physics to French strikers."
"Then clearly I've surpassed them."
Mesut slipped effortlessly into his seat, looking as though he had merely completed a brisk afternoon stroll rather than dismantled Bournemouth's midfield for an hour.
Francesco dropped into the locker beside him, unable to stop smiling.
There was something deeply comforting about this room after a win.
The mess.
The laughter.
The complete absence of dignity.
It felt like home.
Wenger entered briefly one last time, confirming departure times and reminding everyone that punctuality was not an optional tactical instruction.
Walker looked offended.
"I am always punctual."
"You arrived late this morning," Mustafi reminded him.
"I was fashionably punctual."
"That is not a real thing."
"It should be."
"It absolutely should not," Cech said, which immediately ended the discussion.
Even Walker knew better than to debate Petr Cech when he used that tone.
Gradually, the dressing room emptied.
Boot bags were packed.
Recovery drinks were finished.
Phones were checked.
Giroud spent three full minutes ensuring his hair remained worthy of public viewing, a process treated with the seriousness of a military operation.
Alexis somehow looked both exhausted and ready to press a centre-back.
Francesco gathered his own things from boots carefully stowed, captain's armband folded neatly, Man of the Match trophy tucked securely into its protective case.
A good day's work deserved proper handling.
Outside, evening had begun to settle over North London.
The Emirates glowed softly under the fading light, the last of the supporters filtering away, scarves still wrapped around necks, conversations still replaying goals that would be discussed for days.
The team bus waited near the loading area, polished black paint reflecting the stadium lights.
There was something satisfying about that sight too.
A footballer's version of closing time.
Walker bounded aboard first.
Naturally.
He always treated boarding transport like a competitive event.
"I got the good seat!"
"There are fifty good seats," Koscielny informed him.
"Not this one."
Francesco climbed aboard a moment later, trophy case in hand.
Several teammates immediately noticed.
Alexis pointed accusingly.
"You brought it."
"You specifically asked me to."
"I did."
"Then why are you surprised?"
"I enjoy continuity."
"That is not what continuity means."
"It is today."
Mesut slid into the seat beside Francesco, earbuds already in but no music playing yet.
He often did that, using them less for listening and more as a social warning sign.
An elegant defensive system.
The bus eased away from the Emirates, turning out into the London evening.
Traffic crawled.
Supporters still waved as they passed.
A few spotted Francesco through the tinted windows and raised scarves.
He waved back.
That mattered.
It always would.
Inside, the atmosphere was equal parts exhaustion and contentment.
Some players scrolled through social media, immediately regretting it.
Others replayed moments from the match on tablets provided by the club.
Giroud found his header from Santi's cross within minutes.
"Look at that leap."
"You were six inches off the ground," Santi said.
"Vertical excellence."
"French exaggeration."
"Same thing."
Laughter rolled through the aisle.
Francesco rested his head back against the seat.
London drifted past outside in streaks of orange and gold.
Streetlights.
Shop windows.
People heading home.
It was easy, sometimes, to forget how surreal this life really was.
Playing football for Arsenal.
Captaining Arsenal.
Winning.
Scoring.
Hearing thousands sing your name.
Then sitting on a bus afterwards while Olivier Giroud debated whether headers should count as half a goal due to reduced foot involvement.
They should not.
By the time they reached London Colney, the night had fully arrived.
The training ground was quiet, immaculate under floodlights.
A few staff members remained, waiting to collect equipment and ensure players recovered properly.
Football clubs never truly slept.
Francesco stepped off the bus, bag over one shoulder, trophy case in hand.
The cool Hertfordshire air felt sharp against his face.
Mesut adjusted his jacket.
"See you Monday."
"Try not to become too efficient before then."
"No promises."
"Unfair."
Mesut gave one of those tiny smiles of his and headed toward the car park.
Francesco lingered just long enough to exchange a few final words with Wenger.
"Rest tomorrow," the manager said.
"I intend to."
"Good. We will need you."
Francesco nodded.
That was Wenger, really.
Praise, trust, and expectation all delivered in a single sentence.
He drove home through the quiet roads, Arsenal highlights already replaying endlessly across sports radio.
The free kick sounded even better with commentary.
It usually did.
Sunday mornings after a home win were among life's more civilized inventions.
No alarms.
No immediate obligations.
No tactical meetings.
Just peace.
And, in Francesco's case, a golden retriever who considered dawn an abstract concept.
Cheddar had, mercifully, slept in.
That alone deserved recognition.
Now, late morning sunlight spilled through the large living room windows, painting warm lines across the hardwood floor.
Cheddar was currently engaged in mortal combat with a stuffed fox that had already lost several limbs.
Leah sat curled up beside Francesco on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, a mug of coffee balanced carefully in both hands.
She wore one of his Arsenal hoodies, which looked significantly better on her than it ever had on him.
The Man of the Match trophy sat on a nearby shelf, already claimed by Cheddar twice and rescued twice.
"He's definitely tried to eat it," Leah observed.
"He has excellent taste."
"He also tried to eat my shoe this morning."
"That was probably tactical."
Cheddar, hearing his name despite it not being mentioned, looked up proudly before resuming his assault on the fox.
Sky Sports filled the room.
The familiar studio backdrop.
The polished desk.
David Jones seated at the centre with Gary Neville and Jamie Carragher on either side.
A trio perfectly engineered for football discussion and the occasional attempted murder.
"Welcome back," David said smoothly. "Arsenal were once again in irresistible form yesterday, dismantling Bournemouth four-nil at the Emirates. Francesco Lee with two more goals, including a sensational free kick, as Arsène Wenger's side continue their title charge."
The screen immediately showed highlights.
Francesco's opener.
The passing move.
Özil's assist.
The finish.
Then the free kick.
Leah glanced sideways at him as the ball curled into the top corner.
"That was absurd."
"I've seen better."
"From who?"
"Future me, ideally."
"That is a very striker answer."
"It's an honest one."
Gary Neville leaned forward.
"What impresses me most about Arsenal isn't just the quality. It's the relentlessness. They won the treble last season. Most teams would naturally drop two or three percent. It's human nature."
Jamie Carragher nodded.
"Exactly. Success usually softens teams. It can make you comfortable. Arsenal don't look comfortable, as they look greedy."
"That starts with Francesco," Gary continued. "Look at his pressing. Look at his movement. Two goals up, game basically won, and he's still chasing centre-halves like they owe him money."
Leah laughed.
"That is incredibly accurate."
Francesco accepted the compliment with appropriate humility.
"Some people owe me money."
"Do they?"
"No."
"Disappointing."
Carragher pointed toward the tactical screen.
"This free kick here, look at the technique. Minimal backlift. Perfect body shape. The goalkeeper's actually in a decent position. It just doesn't matter."
"It's world-class," Gary said simply.
"And Mesut Özil behind him," David added. "Another assist yesterday. Their understanding looks telepathic at times."
Leah nudged Francesco gently.
"Usually where I want him to be."
Francesco groaned.
"You watched the press conference."
"Of course I did."
"You enjoyed that far too much."
"A little."
Cheddar abandoned the fox long enough to climb partly onto Francesco's lap, then immediately changed his mind and returned to the fox.
A creature of conviction.
On screen, Gary continued.
"Wenger has built something special. Van Dijk and Koscielny are outstanding, Kanté covers half the planet, and then you've got that front line. They still play with hunger. That's the key word."
"Hunger," Carragher agreed. "Two time treble winners who still look annoyed when they don't score five. That's frightening."
David smiled.
"Arsenal supporters won't mind that one bit."
The conversation shifted naturally, as football conversations always did.
Club football gave way to international football.
The World Cup was approaching.
Russia loomed on the horizon.
And suddenly the discussion became national.
"England," David said, "have to be considered genuine contenders this summer."
Gary nodded immediately.
"They absolutely do. For the first time in a long time, they've got elite quality in key positions. Francesco is arguably the best forward in world football right now."
Leah squeezed his hand.
He pretended not to notice.
"Harry Kane is having another brilliant season," Gary continued. "Raheem Sterling is devastating. Dele Alli gives them creativity. And behind that, there's balance."
Carragher leaned in.
"The biggest difference is belief. England sides in the past often had talent but not clarity. This group knows exactly who they are."
A graphic appeared on screen.
England's likely front three.
Sterling.
Kane.
Francesco.
Not a bad collection of attackers.
"Three completely different profiles," Gary said. "Kane gives you finishing and link play. Sterling gives you movement and unpredictability. Francesco gives you… well, everything."
"That's annoyingly comprehensive," Carragher admitted.
"He's captain material too."
Leah looked at him.
"International captain?"
"That's up to the manager."
"Very diplomatic."
"I watch television."
Gary was in full flow now.
"If England are going to win the World Cup, Francesco will be central. The biggest tournaments are decided by moments. Players who can create something out of absolutely nothing."
Carragher pointed directly at the screen as Francesco's free kick replayed again.
"He does that."
David smiled.
"And Arsenal fans will be hoping he saves a few of those moments for the run-in."
Leah rested her head lightly against his shoulder.
"You know, they talk about you quite a lot."
"I've noticed."
"Must be exhausting."
"Terrible burden."
"Brave of you to carry it."
"Someone has to."
Cheddar finally succeeded in removing the fox's remaining ear and trotted proudly across the room with it.
A conqueror returning from war.
Francesco pointed.
"See? Winner's mentality."
"He gets that from you."
"He gets his appetite from you."
"Fair."
The analysis continued for nearly another half hour.
More Arsenal praise.
More World Cup speculation.
A detailed breakdown of Kanté somehow making four tackles in the same sequence.
Gary genuinely seemed offended by how good he was.
Eventually, the programme cut to a commercial break.
Leah muted the television.
The room settled into a comfortable quiet.
Outside, spring sunlight danced across the garden.
Inside, Cheddar had moved on to attacking a blanket.
Francesco stretched his legs across the coffee table.
"World Cup contender," Leah said softly.
"Apparently."
"How does that feel?"
He thought about it.
The expectation.
The noise.
The weight of a nation's hopes.
"It feels exciting," he admitted. "And slightly terrifying."
"Good. That means you're paying attention."
He turned toward her.
"Always."
She smiled.
That smile still did things to him.
Dangerous things.
"You'll be brilliant."
"Reasonably brilliant."
"Modestly brilliant?"
"Exceptionally modest."
"Impossible."
Cheddar barked once, apparently in agreement.
Francesco reached down to scratch behind his ears.
The dog immediately forgave the universe for all previous injustices.
Football moved quickly.
Matches came and went.
Victories faded into preparation for the next challenge.
But mornings like this mattered.
Quiet ones.
The ordinary kind.
A sofa.
A dog.
The woman he loved.
Television pundits debating whether England could conquer the world.
It was, Francesco thought, a pretty good life.
Sky Sports returned from break.
David Jones smiled at the camera.
"Still to come, we'll examine whether Arsenal can retain the Premier League and preview England's upcoming friendlies."
Leah reached for the remote.
"More analysis?"
"Absolutely."
"You really are a footballer."
"I contain multitudes."
"You contain highlight packages."
"Also snacks."
"That's true."
She kissed his cheek.
Cheddar barked again, perhaps jealous, perhaps simply enthusiastic about existing.
Either explanation was plausible.
And as Gary Neville resumed explaining precisely why Arsenal looked like a side determined to win everything again, Francesco leaned back, one arm around Leah, the other absentmindedly rubbing Cheddar's head.
______________________________________________
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: 12
Goal: 16
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
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