The King Of Arsenal

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Francesco clapped twice toward the midfield—energy, encouragement. The Emirates responded with a louder chant now, the volume rising with each minute that passed.

Then came the 28th minute.

It started innocuously enough—just a quick turnover in midfield. Kanté, who is a predator in disguise, slid across to intercept a pass meant for Shane Long. The ball popped loose, and Özil pounced like it had been preordained. One touch to settle, one glance up.

Francesco was already on the move.

A diagonal sprint, carving between Fonte and Yoshida like he was tracing his own path through the night. He didn't shout. Didn't wave. Didn't need to. Özil had always understood movement the way composers understood silence—he knew when to pause, when to let the beat drop.

And just like that, the ball was there.

Slipped in behind with the elegance of a silk thread through a needle. A pass that made defenders freeze and goalkeepers panic. Francesco didn't break stride. His first touch cushioned it perfectly on his right, dragging the ball into his stride. The goal opened before him like a curtain parting on a stage.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then he struck it low, hard, across the body—past Forster's outstretched boot and into the bottom corner.

The Emirates detonated.

The sound wasn't just noise anymore—it was delirium. A collective exhale turned into roar. Flags waved, fists pumped, and thousands of voices cried his name like a hymn.

"FRAAANCESSSCOOOO LEEEEEEEE!"

He didn't sprint away in celebration.

He slowed to a jog, arms spread out like wings, before turning to Özil and thumping a hand against the German's chest with a laugh.

"That's one for the reel," he shouted.

Özil smirked, always understated, and gave him a light slap on the back of the head.

Behind them, Walcott leapt on Francesco's shoulders, followed quickly by Alexis and Ramsey. Even Cech jogged a few steps out from his box to applaud, gloves clapping above his head.

"1–0," the stadium announcer confirmed. "Scorer for Arsenal… number nine… FRRRRRAAAAANCESCCCOOOOOO LEEEEEEEE!"

The scoreboard blinked to life. The tension cracked, just a little. The battle had a lead now.

But nobody—especially not Francesco—relaxed.

There was still fire to feed.

Southampton, to their credit, didn't fold. They reset, pulled themselves together. Fonte barked orders. Long clapped his hands together, trying to rally the midfield. And they came again. Not recklessly—but with intent.

But Arsenal smelled blood.

And N'Golo Kanté? He didn't miss a beat.

It was in the 34th minute that everything clicked again—like cogs in an unstoppable machine. This time, the play started even deeper.

Cech rolled the ball short to Van Dijk, who took two calm touches before shifting it wide to Monreal. The Spaniard clipped it forward to Ramsey, who immediately turned and saw Kanté drifting into space. A simple pass. But what Kanté did next… wasn't simple at all.

He burst forward with that deceptively quick gait—short steps, low center of gravity—gliding past Romeu like he wasn't there. The Emirates crowd could feel something stirring again. Then, just outside the final third, he spotted Alexis making a curving run in behind Soares.

The pass was timed to perfection.

A short, weighted ball—a whisper of a through-pass. It didn't scream brilliance. It whispered it.

Alexis, back from injury but still forged from fire, didn't hesitate. He let the ball roll just ahead of him, into his stride, body angled perfectly.

Fonte was closing. So was Yoshida.

Didn't matter.

Alexis cut inside with a drop of the shoulder, then fired with his right—laced, venomous, dipping slightly.

Fraser Forster didn't even move.

The net rippled with authority.

2–0.

The Emirates shook again—this time with even more urgency. Alexis wheeled away, both arms outstretched, eyes lifted skyward, shouting with a kind of primal catharsis. He hadn't scored in weeks. He hadn't played in weeks. But now? Now he was back.

Francesco was the first to reach him, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Welcome home, hermano," he grinned.

Alexis just laughed and pulled him into a brief hug, then slapped Kanté on the back as the little Frenchman arrived with a sheepish smile.

The team swarmed. Wenger even allowed himself a smile from the sidelines. Steve Bould nudged him with an elbow, grinning.

"That was Kante's goal as much as Alexis'," he said.

Wenger nodded, but his eyes didn't leave the pitch.

Back on the field, the scoreboard changed again:

ARSENAL 2 – 0 SOUTHAMPTON

34 minutes played.

There was an electricity now. Not just in the stadium, but in the way Arsenal moved. They were purring, humming like a symphony in full flow.

Bellerín surged up the right flank. Ramsey and Özil exchanged flicks in tight triangles. Monreal overlapped Alexis with ease, pinging in a cross that nearly found Walcott at the back post.

Southampton were rattled.

In the 38th minute, Walcott had a golden chance to make it three. Özil lofted a ball over the top—Walcott timed his run perfectly, stayed onside, brought it down with his chest, and struck it on the bounce. But the shot fizzed just wide.

Groans echoed, but they were soft—disappointed but not disheartened. Arsenal were flying.

At one point, the camera caught Wenger barking instructions toward the defense—hands gesturing toward shape. He wanted no lapses. Not tonight.

Francesco, still glistening with sweat, kept checking over his shoulder to make sure the line stayed high. He spoke constantly—gesturing to Walcott, clapping Özil, pointing to Alexis.

He wasn't just a striker.

He was a captain now.

And with the lead secured, he wasn't chasing glory. He was organizing. Managing tempo. He dropped deep, drifted wide, let others make runs while he occupied defenders.

The clock ticked toward halftime, but the intensity didn't wane.

In the 43rd minute, Southampton managed a sharp counter. Tadić got loose again, curling in a teasing cross toward Shane Long. It looked dangerous—until Van Dijk launched himself in front of the Irishman with a flying header clearance.

Applause rang out. Koscielny gave him a slap on the back. Cech raised a glove in thanks.

Then, just before the half, Arsenal had one more chance.

Ramsey won the ball high. Özil feinted left and darted right, splitting defenders, before sliding another pass into Francesco's path. The number nine took a touch, shaped to shoot—but Fonte made a last-ditch block. The ball ricocheted back to Alexis, who volleyed it… inches over the bar.

The whistle came seconds later.

Halftime.

Arsenal 2 – 0 Southampton.

Francesco walked off with arms around Özil and Ramsey, their shirts darkened with sweat, but their eyes gleaming. The Emirates buzzed behind them—not a roar now, but that anticipatory hum. Like the whole stadium was leaning forward in their seats, ready for more.

The corridor leading back to the dressing room was hot with breath and momentum. Sweat beaded on foreheads, jersey numbers clung to backs, and the sound of studs clattered over concrete like a marching drumline. Francesco walked at the front of the pack, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt tucked in only halfway, his pulse still ticking from the final play before the whistle.

Behind him, Alexis was animated—talking to Özil in quick Spanish, gesturing with both hands about the half-volley that nearly curled in at the end. Ramsey looked a little more subdued, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving, but there was a light in his eyes that said we're on it tonight.

Inside the dressing room, it was warm and close, the air thick with steam from the showers and liniment oil. The players slumped onto benches, some leaning against the tiled walls, others downing sips of water or pressing ice packs to joints. Cech removed his helmet slowly, revealing a line of sweat that had carved a groove into his forehead. He didn't speak—just nodded once toward Van Dijk, a quiet sign of approval for that late first-half clearance.

Wenger was already waiting by the tactics board. He wasn't shouting. He never shouted at halftime—not when they were leading like this. He waited until the room had settled, until all boots were planted and all eyes turned toward him. Then, in that soft, deliberate French cadence, he spoke.

"We must manage this second half with intelligence," he began. "Southampton will come out aggressive. They know it is their last chance. They will press, they will try to provoke. Do not fall into that trap."

He picked up a marker and began sketching lines on the board.

"Kanté, Ramsey… you need to be the shield. Özil—your positioning between their midfield and backline is perfect. Keep floating. Don't get dragged wide. Francesco…"

Wenger paused, eyes lifting.

"You decide the rhythm. If we push for the third, it must come at the right moment. Not too soon. Not too slow. Make them chase the ball. If you press, they will follow. If you hold, they will tire."

Francesco nodded, arms resting on his knees. His hair was still damp, clinging to his brow. His lungs had mostly recovered—but his brain was still spinning with possibilities.

"Watch Wanyama," Wenger added, eyes narrowing slightly. "He's been late into three challenges already. One more, and he may lose his head."

There were a few muttered comments at that. Walcott chuckled dryly and leaned back.

"Hope he loses it before he takes mine off."

Laughter. Then silence again.

Wenger clapped his hands once.

"Now go. Make the statement."

They rose, almost as one. The mood in the room was focused—not too relaxed, not overly tense. That perfect edge. The kind where confidence met discipline. Where momentum waited just beyond the tunnel.

Francesco lingered a moment, glancing at the board one last time before nodding to himself and standing. As he passed Wenger, the manager rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.

"Control the storm, Francesco," he said softly.

And with that, the second half began.

The wind had picked up slightly in the second half, rattling the corner flags and bringing with it a chill that made the grass glisten a little under the floodlights. The Emirates crowd had barely sat down when Southampton kicked off—and from the first whistle, it was clear: they were going for it.

Romeu and Ward-Prowse pressed higher. Tadić dropped deeper to collect, looking to link quickly. Long sprinted at Van Dijk and Koscielny with the rabid energy of a dog loosed from a chain. And Arsenal? Arsenal had to weather it.

For ten straight minutes, the Gunners were pinned back.

It wasn't a siege—but it was sharp, incisive, full of teeth.

In the 48th minute, Soares whipped in a cross that was just inches over Long's leap. A minute later, Ward-Prowse tried one from distance—low, driven, skipping off the turf like a stone—but Cech saw it early, dropped low, and clutched it to his chest.

"Come on!" Long shouted, clapping his hands, urging his teammates forward.

And they came.

In the 51st, it was Ward-Prowse who carving inside and slipping a clever ball behind Monreal. Soares latched onto it and pinged in a cut-back across the six-yard box.

It should have been a tap-in.

But Cech got a fingertip on it—just enough to deflect it away—and Koscielny launched it into touch.

Francesco had dropped into midfield now, barking orders.

"Stay compact! Backs to backs!"

He gestured frantically, motioning for Ramsey to come closer, for Özil to tuck in. They couldn't let the press split them.

In the 54th minute, the closest call yet: a bouncing ball in the box after a corner pinballed between limbs. It hit Van Dijk's knee, ricocheted off Romeu's thigh, and spun toward the near post.

But again—Cech.

Like a phantom, he dropped low, twisted his torso, and swatted the ball away with his trailing glove.

The stadium exhaled.

Cech rose, slow and deliberate, and bellowed at the defense.

"Organize! Now!"

It was that moment—the tenth minute of pressure—that Arsenal finally broke out.

A loose pass from Ward-Prowse was pounced on by Ramsey, who poked it forward to Özil. The German didn't even look—he just turned and slid a pass down the line for Walcott to chase.

It didn't lead to a goal. But it was enough to turn the tide.

The crowd roared with renewed energy.

And then, the moment everything threatened to boil over.

Minute 58.

Ramsey picked up the ball near the halfway line, tight to the touchline. Romeu stepped to him—but Ramsey dipped a shoulder, rolled the ball with the sole of his foot, then popped it through the Spaniard's legs.

A cheeky little nutmeg.

The crowd went wild.

Ramsey grinned and took off—but he didn't get far.

Because Victor Wanyama had other plans.

He came barreling in from an angle—shoulders hunched, boots high, eyes fixed not on the ball, but on the man.

And when the tackle came—it wasn't a challenge. It was a statement.

His studs caught Ramsey on the shin, flipping the Welshman mid-stride. Ramsey hit the turf with a grunt, clutching his leg, boots scraping against the pitch as he rolled once.

The Emirates erupted in fury.

The ref blew his whistle sharply—three quick blasts—and sprinted over, already reaching for his pocket.

Yellow card.

A yellow.

The moment he flashed it, the Arsenal bench exploded—Wenger off his seat, Bould waving an arm furiously. The crowd booed so loud it was like thunder rolling through the stands.

And on the pitch—it got tense. Fast.

Francesco was there first.

He stormed over to Wanyama, eyes wide, pointing a furious finger.

"What the hell was that!?"

Wanyama didn't flinch.

"It was a tackle."

"Yeah? On his knee?"

Ramsey was still down, trainers rushing in now. Alexis shoved Wanyama in the chest, and suddenly it was a flashpoint—players converging from all angles. Koscielny had to grab Alexis, pulling him back. Walcott stepped between Wanyama and Özil, who was jawing now in German-accented English.

"Foul's a foul!" he shouted.

Bellerín stood over Ramsey protectively, fists clenched, watching the officials with disbelief.

The ref was trying to regain control, gesturing wildly for players to back off.

Francesco, nostrils flaring, turned and walked toward the referee, with Cech and Koscielny close behind.

"That's not a yellow," Francesco said, voice low but loaded. "That's a red. Dangerous play. No intent on the ball."

Cech, still towering even without his helmet, added calmly, "We've seen reds for less. You know it."

The ref shook his head. "Studs were low. Reckless, but not violent conduct."

Koscielny gave a frustrated sigh. "Reckless is violent when it's deliberate."

But the decision stood.

Ramsey was finally helped up—limping, wincing, but walking.

Francesco jogged back toward him, offering a hand.

"You alright?"

"I'll live," Ramsey muttered, flexing his leg. "But that bastard… I felt that in my spine."

Francesco didn't say anything, but his jaw tightened.

He turned back to the pitch.

Because now… now it wasn't just a game again.

Now it was personal.

The Emirates hummed now—not with anxiety, but with fire. Not with tension, but with fury.

What Wanyama had done wasn't just a bad tackle—it was a spark. A reckless, deliberate strike that didn't just catch Ramsey's shin, but struck something deeper in the Arsenal players. Pride. Unity. Rage. That kind of foul didn't just bruise a teammate. It insulted them all.

And Francesco—Francesco felt that insult in his marrow.

So when the referee tucked the yellow card back into his pocket and waved for play to resume, he jogged slowly back into position, jaw set, eyes scanning every Southampton shirt like prey.

Southampton had gone too far.

They were about to feel it.

Minute 61.

It started with Alexis.

The Chilean had been simmering since the tackle—muttering in Spanish under his breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. But now, as Koscielny won back a lazy Southampton throw and slipped it wide to Bellerín, the ball found its way to Alexis in space on the left.

He didn't wait.

A burst of pace—a shimmy past Soares—and suddenly he was gone, tearing down the wing like a bolt of crimson lightning.

The crowd surged to its feet.

Francesco was already moving. He read it before anyone else. A sixth sense—the way Alexis held the ball a little longer, drawing in Yoshida, tempting Fonte to shift left. He knew what was coming.

And Alexis delivered.

A low ball whipped in with venom—flat, fast, skipping over the grass like a bullet from the byline. A pass for one man only.

Francesco hit it first time.

No touch. No hesitation.

His right foot met the ball with surgical violence, guiding it across his body and into the bottom corner of the net with such precision it didn't even touch the sides. Just a clean, crack—net rippling.

3–0.

The Emirates erupted.

He didn't celebrate wildly. No flips. No slides. He simply turned toward the North Bank, fists clenched, and roared. A deep, primal roar that said we are not to be messed with. Alexis was on him in seconds, leaping onto his back, followed by Özil and Walcott, shouting in glee.

But Francesco's face never lost that edge.

This wasn't joy.

This was punishment.

Minute 64.

Southampton tried to reset. They kicked off again, pushed forward half-heartedly. But the bite was gone now. Their press faltered, their lines loosened. That spark they'd carried in the first ten minutes of the half? Extinguished.

And Arsenal smelled blood.

It began with Cech, again—calmly claiming a corner and rolling it to Monreal. The Spaniard passed into Ramsey, who'd shaken off the knock like a man possessed. Ramsey turned with grace, drifting past Romeu with a little shoulder feint and galloping into the space between lines.

Francesco, already on the move, pointed.

Ramsey saw it.

The ball came like a dart—threaded through two defenders, just inside the channel between Fonte and Soares. Francesco took it in stride with the outside of his right boot, barely breaking stride, and let it run across his body.

Then he opened up—and curled it.

Left foot. Inside of the foot. No power, all precision.

Forster dove. Full stretch.

Didn't matter.

The ball kissed the far post and nestled in the side netting.

4–0. Hat-trick.

He pointed toward Ramsey this time, grinning now, something a little looser in his shoulders. The roar was still there, but the anger was melting, replaced by something more satisfying: dominance.

Ramsey arrived, clapping him on the back. "That one was for the spine," he said, half-laughing, half-growling.

Francesco nodded, eyes burning.

Then he turned to the bench.

Because Wenger was already waving.

Minute 65.

It was time.

Francesco jogged over to the sideline, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips now. The stadium gave him a standing ovation—more than just appreciation. It was a tribute. A salute. A shared catharsis.

He slapped hands with Olivier Giroud, who came on in his place, and gave a quick hug to Coquelin and Oxlade-Chamberlain as they replaced Ramsey and Walcott respectively.

Walcott jogged off beside him, both men soaked in sweat.

"Could've had five," Theo said, nudging him.

Francesco smirked. "Save some for Chelsea next week."

On the touchline, Wenger shook Francesco's hand—then pulled him close for a brief, rare embrace.

"Well done, mon capitaine," he said in that quiet, calm tone.

Francesco sat, towel around his shoulders, heart still thudding. His job was done. Now he could watch.

And what he saw next was Southampton unraveling.

Minute 69.

Ronald Koeman, jaw tight and eyes unreadable, decided to roll the dice. Not to salvage the game—no, that was gone. But to inject fresh legs, perhaps chase a consolation. Or just avoid humiliation.

Off came Tadić, Ward-Prowse, and Mané.

On came Graziano Pellè, Juanmi, and Matt Targett.

But it changed nothing.

Because this was Arsenal's pitch now. Arsenal's tempo. Arsenal's fury made flesh.

And while Giroud might not have Francesco's finesse, he brought a different sort of menace—power, presence, and that chip-on-the-shoulder pride of a striker tired of being the second option. Within minutes, he was backing into Yoshida, flicking headers, drawing fouls. Coquelin buzzed in midfield like a hornet, snapping at Romeu's heels. The Ox brought pure chaos—dribbling at defenders, forcing corners, lifting the crowd with every darting run.

Francesco watched it all from the bench, sipping water, wrapping ice around his ankles. But his eyes never left the pitch.

It wasn't about ego now. It was about legacy.

Because these weren't just three points. This wasn't just revenge for a dirty tackle. This was statement football. The kind of performance that sent a message through the Premier League.

That Arsenal weren't soft.

That Arsenal weren't fading.

That this team, led by this captain, was here for the title.

And everyone—from Wenger to the groundskeeper to the roaring crowd in the stands—felt it.

Every pass now came with intent.

Every press came with venom.

Even Özil, who often glided like silk through games, was snarling now—sliding into tackles, yelling at the referee for throw-in decisions. It was as if that Wanyama tackle had reached into the German's soul and flipped a switch.

In the 74th minute, Oxlade-Chamberlain nearly made it five with a searing drive from 25 yards that rattled the crossbar. Giroud nodded the rebound wide. The stadium groaned—but it was the groan of a satisfied crowd, not an anxious one. They were being fed. This was feast.

Koeman, arms folded, stood motionless. There was nothing more he could do.

On the Arsenal bench, Bould leaned over to Wenger.

"He's something else, that kid," he said, nodding toward Francesco.

Wenger didn't smile. But his eyes gleamed.

"He understands more than just goals," the Frenchman murmured. "He understands moments."

The minutes ticked down, but Arsenal didn't retreat. They didn't sit back in a low block or waste time in the corners. That wasn't the spirit of the evening. Not after what had happened. Not after Wanyama's tackle had lit the match under their pride.

No, they kept pushing.

Not recklessly, but with control. Authority. The kind of football that made even neutral fans sit up and say, "This is a side that believes."

Kanté, tireless as ever, seemed to clone himself across the midfield. One moment he was at the edge of Arsenal's own box, breaking up a Southampton cross with a perfectly timed interception, and the next, he was storming up the pitch, releasing Oxlade-Chamberlain down the left like a greyhound bursting from the trap.

The Ox had the crowd behind him now. Every touch buzzed with electricity. Every burst of pace drew a swell of noise. And though his final ball wasn't perfect, it didn't need to be. The tone had been set.

Southampton, to their credit, didn't completely collapse. They tried. They still put passes together, still shouted instructions, still pressed when they could. But it was hollow. A performance wrapped in the shell of structure, but with no heart left to animate it.

Every time they touched the ball, they looked up—and saw red shirts already in motion.

Every time they tried to build—there was Kanté. Or Coquelin. Or Özil, who by now had transformed from the artist to the architect of Arsenal's tempo, slowing play down with a velvet touch or speeding it up with a flick and spin.

Francesco sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, studying everything.

His ice pack had slipped off his right ankle, half-melted now, but he didn't care. He wasn't in pain. Just drenched in sweat, a slight ache in his thighs from the sprints—but it was the good kind. The kind that told you that you'd left something out there.

Wenger leaned toward him at one point, voice quiet beneath the chants of "We love you Arsenal, we do!"

"You know, sometimes a captain doesn't need to shout," the manager said, arms folded. "Sometimes he just needs to strike at the right moment."

Francesco nodded once, absorbing the words.

Behind them, Bellerín made another lung-bursting run, overlapping the Ox and earning a throw near the corner flag. Time kept ticking.

85 minutes.

Giroud got a half-chance—turning Fonte on the edge of the box and firing low with his left foot—but Forster was equal to it, diving low to palm it wide. It earned a corner, and the crowd clapped in appreciation.

The corner itself came to nothing, but by now it didn't matter.

The fans were already on their feet, already singing.

"We've got Özil… Mesut Özil, I just don't think you understand…"

And then a shift in tone. A new chant.

"Fran-ces-co Lee, Fran-ces-co Lee… He came from nowhere, now he wears the armband proudly!"

He heard it.

Felt it.

And for a second, something in his chest caught—not pain, not fatigue, just a strange, overwhelming sense of presence. Of knowing this wasn't a dream. That this was real.

This club. These people. This moment.

Walcott, now sitting beside him with a blanket across his knees, nudged him with a grin. "Captain chants already, mate? Took Tony Adams about ten years to get that."

Francesco smirked, a slight shake of his head. "Better not let Tony hear you say that."

Theo chuckled, then pointed out at the pitch. "They're loving this. We all are. But you know what's best?"

"What?"

"They're scared again. The other clubs. They'll see this tomorrow and remember what we can be."

Francesco didn't answer.

But he knew it was true.

The final minutes drifted like a coda—no desperation, no drama. Just a team in total control.

89 minutes.

Giroud, now playing like a target man in a training exercise, took a long clearance on his chest, held off Yoshida, and earned a free kick to slow things down. Özil stood over it but passed short, choosing possession over flash. The fans didn't mind. They clapped it, savored it.

91 minutes.

Southampton tried one last foray. Pellè flicked a hopeful header down to Juanmi, who took a touch and tried to release Bertrand down the left. But Monreal was there, calm as ever, ushering the ball out for a goal kick with his body between man and ball.

Cech waited. Waved his arms gently to his teammates. Then, with no rush at all, rolled the ball out to Van Dijk.

Van Dijk, the new man in red, had barely put a foot wrong all night. And now, he took that final touch, passed across to Koscielny, who clipped it out wide to Bellerín—

And the whistle blew.

Full time.

Arsenal 4 – 0 Southampton.

The Emirates rose like a wave, a standing ovation sweeping across every block of the stadium. No pockets of silence. No early leavers. Everyone stayed. Everyone stood.

Because this wasn't just a win.

It was a message.

And the scoreboard said it plainly.

Francesco stood slowly, clapping along with the fans, before joining the others on the pitch. Ramsey, who'd gone straight to the referee after the final whistle—still fuming over the yellow card—was being gently pulled away by Koscielny.

"It's done now," the Frenchman said. "We won. We won big."

Ramsey eventually relented, turning to clap toward the North Bank.

Giroud offered Francesco a brief shoulder bump as they crossed paths. "Cheers for softening them up," he said.

Francesco grinned. "Cheers for the hold-up play."

Özil came over, towel around his neck, sweat dripping, and simply said, "That third goal… pure anger. Loved it."

"Same," Alexis chimed in, switching easily from Spanish to English. "You crushed it, hermano. Like a hammer."

They moved toward the center circle, waving at the fans. Francesco lingered near the penalty spot for a second, just looking up into the lights, the thousands of faces above him.

________________________________________________

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: 34

Goal: 52

Assist: 9

MOTM: 5

POTM: 1

England:

Match Played: 2

Goal: 4

Assist: 0

Season 14/15 stats:

Match Played: 35

Goal: 45

Assist: 12

MOTM: 9