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And on one unforgettable afternoon at Old Trafford, they had achieved something English football had never seen before.
The referee's whistle had ended the match.
It had not ended the noise.
For several long seconds, Old Trafford seemed to breathe as one.
The away section erupted into another chorus of celebration, scarves held high above thousands of heads as Arsenal supporters sang with a pride that had only grown stronger throughout the afternoon. Across the stadium, many Manchester United supporters remained standing instead of heading immediately for the exits.
Some applauded.
Others simply watched.
They had seen their own side lose.
But they had also witnessed something English football had never seen before.
Four consecutive Premier League titles.
History demanded recognition.
The frantic celebrations among Arsenal's players slowly became calmer.
Walker finally climbed down from Van Dijk's back, still laughing.
"I'm definitely too old for that."
Van Dijk adjusted his shirt with exaggerated annoyance.
"I was about to say the same thing."
"You loved it."
"I tolerated it."
"You smiled."
"I smiled because we won."
Nearby, Saka had somehow become trapped in a group hug involving Giroud, Smith Rowe and Nketiah.
"I can't breathe," the teenager laughed.
Giroud grinned.
"Champions don't need oxygen."
Ramsey immediately shook his head.
"That's medically inaccurate."
"So is half your passing."
The group burst into laughter.
Even the medical staff watching from nearby smiled.
Gradually, the two squads began drifting toward one another.
Competition faded.
Respect remained.
Antonio Valencia was among the first to approach.
The Manchester United captain walked directly toward Francesco before extending his hand.
"Congratulations."
His smile carried genuine warmth.
"You deserved it."
Francesco accepted the handshake firmly.
"Thank you."
"You pushed us harder than the score suggests."
Valencia nodded.
"I hope we push you even harder next season."
"I'd expect nothing less."
Instead of letting go immediately, Valencia briefly pulled Francesco into a respectful embrace before wishing him luck once more.
Moments later David De Gea arrived.
The Spanish goalkeeper smiled as he shook Francesco's hand.
"I still don't like that free kick."
Francesco laughed.
"I wouldn't either."
De Gea shook his head.
"I saw it."
"I just couldn't reach it."
"There wasn't much anyone could do."
"Maybe."
De Gea smiled again.
"But I'd rather never see you standing over one against us again."
Paul Pogba approached next.
The French midfielder exchanged handshakes with several Arsenal players before stopping beside Francesco.
"Congratulations, captain."
"You've set an unbelievable standard."
Francesco nodded appreciatively.
"You weren't exactly easy to play against."
Pogba laughed.
"I scored."
"You answered five minutes later."
"I was hoping you'd celebrate a little less."
Francesco smiled.
"I'll remember that next time."
"I doubt it."
The two shared a brief embrace before Pogba continued congratulating Van Dijk and Kanté.
Marcus Rashford arrived moments later.
The young forward looked disappointed by the result, yet his respect remained obvious.
"Congratulations."
Francesco shook his hand.
"You caused us problems today."
Rashford smiled modestly.
"Not enough."
"There'll be more chances."
"I hope so."
"You've earned everything."
"Thank you."
Nemanja Matić followed.
His handshake was firm.
"You move the ball as well as any team I've played."
Francesco answered honestly.
"You made us work for every minute."
"You never stopped competing."
Matić nodded.
"Neither did you."
Chris Smalling arrived wearing a tired smile.
"I'll be seeing your movement in my sleep."
Walker overheard him immediately.
"You and me both."
Laughter spread naturally between both groups.
Smalling shook Francesco's hand again.
"Seriously."
"Congratulations."
Juan Mata approached quietly, as was his nature.
His smile carried the calm dignity that had always defined him.
"It was beautiful football."
Francesco answered with equal sincerity.
"Coming from you…"
"…that means a great deal."
The Spaniard nodded gently.
"Enjoy today."
"You've earned it."
Around them, similar scenes unfolded everywhere.
Alexis embraced Henrikh Mkhitaryan, sharing a few words in Spanish before wishing each other well.
Čech and De Gea exchanged goalkeeping observations with easy smiles.
Walker chatted briefly with Ashley Young, both laughing about the relentless running demanded of modern full-backs.
Robertson congratulated Rashford on his persistence throughout the match.
Van Dijk and Lukaku shared a powerful embrace before exchanging a few jokes about their physical battle that afternoon.
Even Fellaini laughed while talking with Mustafi about the late header.
Near the technical areas, Wenger slowly walked toward Mourinho.
For years their rivalry had dominated headlines.
There had been disagreements.
Touchline arguments.
Sharp words.
Competitive tension.
Today, none of that mattered.
Mourinho extended his hand first.
"Congratulations, Arsène."
"You've built an exceptional team."
Wenger accepted the handshake warmly.
"Thank you, José."
"Your team made us earn every moment."
Mourinho smiled faintly.
"As it should be."
"It always should."
For a brief second they simply looked at one another.
Two managers who had spent years challenging each other at the highest level.
Then Mourinho gave a respectful nod.
"Enjoy the trophy."
Wenger answered with one of his own.
"We will."
Around them, members of both coaching staffs exchanged similar congratulations before gradually returning toward their respective benches.
The atmosphere across Old Trafford had become unexpectedly warm.
Football rivalry remained.
So did mutual admiration.
Before leaving the pitch, Arsenal turned together toward each side of the stadium.
First came the away supporters.
Every Arsenal player applauded continuously.
The travelling fans answered with deafening chants that echoed around every stand.
Many supporters held scarves stretched proudly above their heads.
Others simply clapped until their hands reddened.
Francesco looked up at them for several seconds.
Without them, many difficult away victories throughout the season would have felt much longer.
He placed a hand over the Arsenal crest on his chest before applauding once more.
Then, almost instinctively, the squad turned toward the home supporters.
Old Trafford answered with another generous round of applause.
Walker quietly smiled.
"They didn't have to do that."
"No," Van Dijk replied.
"They chose to."
Francesco nodded.
"And we'll remember it."
Every Arsenal player applauded the home crowd in return before finally walking together toward the tunnel.
The applause followed them all the way inside.
The dressing room looked very different only fifteen minutes later.
Music played quietly through portable speakers.
Not loud enough to drown conversation.
Just enough to accompany it.
Players gradually peeled off mud-stained shirts, soaked socks and tape before disappearing into the showers.
Steam drifted across the room.
Medical staff immediately began recovery routines.
Ice baths waited nearby.
Massage tables had already been prepared.
Sports scientists handed out recovery drinks almost as quickly as players returned from showering.
"You first," Shad Forsythe smiled at Walker.
Walker groaned dramatically.
"I've just become champion."
"You've also run almost twelve kilometres."
"That's unrelated."
"It isn't."
"It feels unrelated."
Laughter spread again.
A few minutes later the equipment staff entered carrying several large black boxes.
The conversations paused.
"What have we got?" Ramsey asked.
One of the kit managers smiled.
"I think you'll like these."
The lids were opened.
Inside, neatly folded in perfect rows, were white commemorative shirts.
Each bore a large crimson number across the chest.
Above it sat the Arsenal crest.
Beneath it, in elegant lettering, were the words:
Champions of England 2017–18
17 League Titles
Almost immediately the room filled with appreciative murmurs.
"They're brilliant," Saka said, carefully unfolding his.
Giroud held his shirt against himself.
"I look younger already."
Walker raised an eyebrow.
"The shirt doesn't perform miracles."
"It might."
"It definitely doesn't."
One by one, every player exchanged their training tops for the commemorative shirts.
Soon the dressing room had transformed into a sea of matching white and red.
Photographers from the club media team entered quietly.
"Everyone together?"
Within seconds the squad naturally gathered.
Some players stood.
Others crouched.
Someone insisted Wenger stand in the middle.
"No," Wenger protested.
"This is your day."
Ramsey immediately shook his head.
"No chance, boss."
"You started this."
Giroud added,
"And you're not escaping the photograph."
The manager surrendered with a smile.
Camera flashes illuminated the room.
Then another photograph.
And another.
Smaller groups formed naturally afterward.
The defenders posed together.
The midfielders followed.
The academy graduates insisted on one of their own.
Saka somehow convinced Francesco, Smith Rowe and Nketiah into recreating an old youth-team celebration, leaving everyone else laughing when they almost lost their balance.
Club officials entered a few moments later carrying clipboards.
One of them waited until the room settled.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
He smiled.
"Congratulations."
A spontaneous round of applause interrupted him.
He laughed before continuing.
"The Football Association is currently completing construction of the presentation podium."
"Television crews are making their final preparations."
"So we have a little time before returning to the pitch."
"Take your recovery seriously."
"Enjoy the moment."
"And when we're called…"
"…we'll make some more history."
That sentence lingered in the room.
More history.
The celebrations became gentler afterward.
Players sat wherever they found space.
Some checked messages from family.
Others made short video calls.
Ramsey showed Walker a photograph his children had already sent him wearing Arsenal shirts.
Giroud laughed while scrolling through hundreds of congratulatory messages.
Cazorla quietly spoke with the medical staff who had helped him through countless difficult months.
Čech sat peacefully beside Wenger for several minutes without either man needing to say very much.
Sometimes silence carried enough meaning.
Across the room, the younger players struggled to hide their excitement.
Saka examined his winner's shirt for what felt like the tenth time.
"I still can't believe this."
Smith Rowe smiled.
"It feels different now we're actually here."
Nketiah nodded.
"When you dream about it…"
"…it never looks exactly like this."
"It looks better," Saka admitted softly.
Francesco listened to them from nearby before allowing himself a quiet smile.
Youth always brought perspective.
He slowly stood and looked around the dressing room.
Not quickly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Walker laughing again.
Van Dijk speaking with Mustafi.
Robertson teasing Cazorla about his height.
Kanté smiling modestly while Giroud insisted on taking another team selfie.
Čech calmly sipping water.
Wenger watching everyone with unmistakable pride.
It struck Francesco that success had never belonged to one player.
Or one brilliant afternoon.
It belonged to everyone in that room.
Every difficult pre-season session.
Every recovery day.
Every tactical meeting.
Every substitute who had accepted his role.
Every member of the medical department.
Every coach.
Every analyst.
Every groundskeeper who had prepared immaculate training pitches before sunrise.
Every supporter who had travelled across the country.
History had been built together.
He took a slow breath.
Then quietly reminded himself of something Wenger often said.
Success was never permission to relax.
It was responsibility.
The challenge tomorrow would begin again.
But tomorrow could wait.
A gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.
An FA official appeared at the doorway wearing a navy blazer and an unmistakably excited smile.
"Gentlemen…"
"The stage is ready."
Then chairs scraped gently across the floor.
Conversations paused.
Water bottles were set aside.
The atmosphere changed without losing its warmth. The laughter remained, but beneath it settled a quiet understanding that another unforgettable chapter was about to begin.
Wenger stood first.
"Shall we?"
Nobody needed further encouragement.
One by one, Arsenal's entire travelling party rose together.
Not only the players.
Steve Bould.
Shad Forsythe.
The physiotherapists.
Club doctors.
Goalkeeping coaches.
Video analysts.
Nutrition staff.
Kit managers.
Sports scientists.
Media personnel.
Equipment assistants.
The people who spent most matchdays hidden behind laptops, treatment tables and storage cases now walked alongside the footballers whose performances filled newspaper headlines.
For once, everyone would share the spotlight.
As they left the dressing room together, applause echoed from staff members lining the corridor.
Stewards smiled.
Ground staff applauded respectfully.
Even stadium employees from Manchester United nodded as Arsenal's procession made its way through the concrete passageways beneath Old Trafford.
Walker glanced around with a grin.
"I don't think I've ever seen this many Arsenal people in one tunnel."
Giroud smiled.
"That's because we usually disappear before the cameras arrive."
"This time," Ramsey replied,
"everyone deserves to be seen."
Nobody argued.
They emerged from the tunnel together.
The floodlights illuminated Old Trafford in brilliant white despite the afternoon sun beginning to fade beyond the roofline. The stadium had become something entirely different from the fiercely competitive arena it had been only half an hour earlier.
The centre circle had disappeared beneath an elegant presentation platform.
Deep navy carpet stretched across the stage.
Premier League branding framed every angle.
At its centre rested the trophy itself.
Silver.
Gold.
Perfectly polished beneath the lights.
Television cameras surrounded the podium from every direction.
Broadcast crews adjusted microphones one final time.
Photographers knelt shoulder to shoulder along the touchline, lenses already focused.
Football Association officials stood waiting in formal suits.
The Premier League ribbon hanging from the famous trophy shimmered softly in the evening light.
All around them, Old Trafford applauded.
Not only one stand.
All four.
The Arsenal supporters sang continuously.
The Manchester United supporters answered with respectful applause.
Football had become celebration rather than rivalry.
Martin Tyler's voice carried gently over the television broadcast.
"What a magnificent scene."
"Old Trafford has witnessed countless great champions over the decades…"
"…but today it welcomes a side that has accomplished something no Premier League club has ever achieved."
Alan Smith smiled.
"And perhaps that's why the applause feels so genuine."
"Supporters know they're watching history."
The master of ceremonies stepped toward the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
"Please welcome the champions of the Premier League."
Another enormous roar swept around the stadium.
"First, we recognise the coaching and support staff whose dedication throughout the season has made this achievement possible."
Wenger exchanged one brief glance with Steve Bould before leading the procession.
The Arsenal manager walked calmly toward the podium.
As his name echoed around Old Trafford, the applause became noticeably louder.
Many Manchester United supporters rose once again.
Wenger smiled modestly, shaking hands with each Football Association dignitary before accepting his gold winner's medal.
He paused only briefly to acknowledge every corner of the stadium before stepping aside.
Steve Bould followed.
Then Gerry Peyton.
Shad Forsythe.
The doctors.
The physiotherapists.
Performance analysts.
Video specialists.
Strength and conditioning coaches.
Nutrition experts.
The kit managers who had prepared every shirt throughout the campaign.
The laundry staff.
Equipment assistants.
Every individual crossed the stage alone.
Every individual received the same medal.
Every individual received heartfelt applause.
Many looked almost overwhelmed.
One of the senior kit managers quietly wiped away tears after accepting his medal.
Walker noticed from below.
"He deserves that."
"He does," Robertson answered softly.
"He probably knows where all our boots are better than we do."
Laughter rippled through the squad.
Soon the master of ceremonies continued.
"And now…"
"…the players."
David Raya became the first member of the squad to be introduced.
The substitute goalkeeper walked confidently across the podium, shaking hands respectfully before receiving his medal.
He smiled broadly toward his teammates, who applauded enthusiastically.
"Higher!" Giroud shouted jokingly.
"So everyone can see it."
Raya laughed and obediently lifted the medal above his head before stepping aside.
Rob Holding followed.
Then Héctor Bellerín.
Shkodran Mustafi.
Eddie Nketiah.
Each player enjoyed their own moment.
The Arsenal supporters sang every name.
The rest of the squad clapped continuously.
When Emile Smith Rowe's name echoed through Old Trafford, the academy graduates erupted into especially loud applause.
Saka whistled proudly.
"Go on, Emile!"
Smith Rowe laughed shyly before accepting his medal.
Then came Bukayo Saka.
Although still one of the youngest members of the squad, his Wembley performance remained fresh in everyone's memory.
The away supporters greeted him with thunderous applause.
He looked almost embarrassed by the reception.
Francesco smiled warmly.
"You'd better enjoy this."
Saka nodded with a grin before collecting his medal.
Next came Santi Cazorla.
The applause became deeply emotional.
Supporters from both clubs understood everything the Spaniard had overcome simply to stand on that podium again.
He accepted his medal slowly, smiling through visibly emotional eyes before raising it gently toward every stand.
Even Martin Tyler paused briefly.
"There are football stories…"
"…and then there are human stories."
"Santi Cazorla belongs firmly in the second category."
Aaron Ramsey received another tremendous ovation.
Then Olivier Giroud.
The French striker bowed theatrically toward the Arsenal supporters after receiving his medal, prompting laughter from teammates and another wave of applause.
Walker shouted,
"Show-off!"
Giroud placed a dramatic hand over his heart.
"I dedicate this performance…"
"…to myself."
Even Wenger laughed.
Then came the starting eleven.
Andrew Robertson.
Laurent Koscielny.
Kyle Walker.
N'Golo Kanté.
Granit Xhaka.
Serge Gnabry.
Alexis Sánchez.
Mesut Özil.
Virgil van Dijk.
Each player crossed the podium individually.
Each handshake carried quiet dignity.
Each medal represented months of sacrifice rather than one afternoon.
The applause never diminished.
When Van Dijk received his medal, Walker greeted him with another embrace.
"Worth carrying me earlier?"
Van Dijk rolled his eyes.
"Barely."
Čech was introduced second last.
The veteran goalkeeper accepted his medal with characteristic calm before pausing to applaud the supporters himself.
Years of experience had taught him to appreciate moments like these.
Then…
Silence settled naturally across Old Trafford.
Not complete silence.
Expectant silence.
The master of ceremonies smiled before speaking once more.
"And finally…"
"…your captain."
"Ballon d'Or winner."
"Premier League champion."
"Please welcome…"
"Francesco."
The reaction was immediate.
Forty thousand people stood almost instinctively.
The Arsenal end erupted into a deafening chant.
"Francesco!"
"Francesco!"
"Francesco!"
Even thousands of Manchester United supporters rose respectfully.
The applause seemed to roll endlessly around the stadium.
Francesco remained still for one brief moment before beginning his walk.
He did not rush.
Every step carried quiet composure.
Martin Tyler's voice softened.
"This is a very special reception."
"It recognises far more than today's performance."
Alan Smith nodded.
"It recognises an extraordinary footballer."
"The reigning Ballon d'Or winner."
"A captain who has transformed standards inside Arsenal."
"A player who leads through work rather than words."
"He scores spectacular goals."
"He creates."
"He presses."
"But perhaps more importantly…"
"…he has helped create a dressing room where every player believes collective success matters more than individual recognition."
Martin Tyler continued.
"The greatest captains elevate everyone around them."
"That is precisely what Francesco has done."
"He has become the heartbeat of one of the finest Arsenal teams ever assembled."
Francesco climbed the steps.
One by one he shook hands with every Football Association dignitary.
Each congratulated him warmly.
Each handshake lasted only a moment.
Then the President of the Football Association stepped forward.
He smiled before extending both hands.
"Congratulations, Captain."
"What your club has achieved this season will be remembered for generations."
Francesco inclined his head respectfully.
"Thank you, sir."
The President carefully lifted the Premier League trophy from its stand.
Even after countless photographs, the silverware somehow appeared even more magnificent up close.
He held it for a brief second.
Then placed it carefully into Francesco's hands.
The weight surprised him slightly.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
This was English football's greatest prize.
And today it belonged to Arsenal once again.
For the fourth consecutive season.
For the seventeenth league championship in the club's history.
Francesco accepted it with both hands.
Not raising it immediately.
Simply holding it.
Respecting it.
Appreciating what it represented.
He looked briefly toward the President.
"Thank you."
Then he turned.
His teammates were already waiting.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Calling him forward.
Walker pointed dramatically.
"Hurry up!"
"We're getting old."
Francesco laughed before carrying the trophy toward the centre of the podium.
The squad gathered tightly around him.
Arms naturally wrapped around shoulders.
Wenger stood just behind them, hands resting gently behind his back, his smile carrying years of pride, relief and fulfilment.
The trophy rested against Francesco's chest.
Around Old Trafford the countdown began.
It started inside the Arsenal section.
Then spread.
Even many Manchester United supporters joined.
"Ten!"
"Nine!"
"Eight!"
The cameras flashed continuously.
Photographers leaned forward.
Television helicopters hovered above the stadium.
"Seven!"
"Six!"
Players tightened together.
Walker threw an arm around Robertson.
Giroud hugged Saka.
Van Dijk rested a hand on Francesco's shoulder.
"Five!"
"Four!"
The roar built with every number.
"Three!"
"Two!"
"One!"
Francesco lifted the Premier League trophy high above his head.
Old Trafford exploded.
Golden pyrotechnics erupted skyward from every corner of the podium.
Columns of brilliant flame burst into the evening air.
Fireworks thundered above the stadium roof.
Enormous streams of red-and-white confetti cascaded endlessly across the champions.
The noise became almost overwhelming.
Teammates erupted into celebration.
Walker leapt into the air.
Giroud shouted so loudly he could barely hear himself.
Saka stared upward through falling confetti with childlike wonder.
Wenger applauded quietly before finally allowing emotion to soften his composed expression.
Martin Tyler's iconic voice rose above the celebration.
"The 2017–2018 Premier League champions…"
"…are Arsenal!"
Alan Smith laughed with unmistakable admiration.
"What a football team."
"Week after week…"
"Month after month…"
"They've been relentless."
"They've now won four consecutive Premier League titles."
"A seventeenth English league championship."
"And in doing so…"
"…they've secured their place forever among the greatest sides English football has ever produced."
The celebrations continued for several glorious minutes.
Players took turns lifting the trophy.
Čech raised it.
Van Dijk.
Walker.
Kanté.
Even the substitutes enjoyed their own photographs holding English football's greatest prize.
Eventually the pyrotechnics subsided.
Confetti still drifted lazily across the grass like snowfall.
The formal ceremony gradually gave way to something far more personal.
A stadium announcer invited players' families onto the pitch.
Almost immediately the touchline transformed.
Children ran excitedly toward their fathers.
Partners embraced loved ones.
Parents walked across the famous Old Trafford grass with expressions that balanced pride, disbelief and overwhelming happiness.
The pitch filled with laughter.
Tiny Arsenal shirts appeared everywhere.
Photographers abandoned carefully planned positions in favour of capturing genuine family moments.
Walker disappeared almost instantly after spotting his children sprinting toward him.
Giroud lifted one youngster onto his shoulders.
Saka found himself surrounded by relatives who barely gave him time to speak before embracing him again.
Francesco stood beside the trophy for a moment, watching the beautiful chaos unfold.
Then, across the field…
He saw them.
Leah.
Walking beside Mike and Sarah.
His father smiled long before they reached one another.
His mother already had tears in her eyes.
For a second, everything else disappeared.
The cameras.
The supporters.
The celebrations.
Even the trophy.
Francesco walked toward them.
Then quicker.
Finally closing the remaining distance before wrapping both arms around his father.
Mike embraced him tightly.
"So proud of you."
The words were quiet.
Almost lost beneath the stadium noise.
Yet Francesco heard every one of them.
"Thanks, Dad."
His voice caught slightly.
They stepped apart only for Sarah to pull him into another embrace.
She held him for several long moments.
"I knew you'd do incredible things."
She smiled through tears.
"But watching you become this man…"
"…means even more."
Francesco gently kissed her forehead.
"None of this happens without you."
His mother squeezed his hand.
"We've only watched."
"You did the hard part."
He shook his head softly.
"We all did."
Then he turned.
Leah stood only a step away, smiling with unmistakable pride.
Neither of them spoke immediately.
There was no need.
Francesco simply closed the distance and wrapped her warmly into his arms.
She laughed quietly against his shoulder.
"You weren't bad today."
He smiled.
"Only not bad?"
"I'm trying not to inflate your ego."
"I've heard I scored one decent free kick."
"I might have noticed."
She leaned back just enough to look at him before gently placing a hand against his cheek.
"I'm so proud of you."
Francesco smiled.
"I'm proud of us."
Then, beneath the floodlights of Old Trafford, surrounded by teammates, families, supporters, drifting confetti and the Premier League trophy resting proudly nearby, he kissed her softly.
Around them, the celebrations carried on.
Children laughed.
Supporters continued singing.
Cameras captured memories that would last forever as new history had been written.
But in that quiet moment between family, love and football, it no longer felt like history as it simply felt like home.
______________________________________________
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, 2016/2017 Champions League, and 2017/2018 Carabao Cup.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 54
Goal: 69
Assist: 6
MOTM: 7
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 4
Goal: 4
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
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