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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And Francesco kept one hand firmly around the Champions League trophy as he walked beside Wenger and his teammates toward the waiting reception.
The first few steps into the London terminal were almost impossible to take.
The crowd had been loud from the moment the Arsenal players emerged, but as Francesco and his teammates began moving deeper into the terminal, the sheer number of supporters became impossible to ignore.
Airport security personnel had formed a corridor between rows of barriers, creating a narrow passage through the sea of red and white.
It barely felt wide enough.
Supporters pressed against the barriers on both sides, stretching their arms over one another, waving flags, holding scarves above their heads and trying to catch the attention of anyone wearing an Arsenal crest.
"ARSENAL!"
"ARSENAL!"
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!"
The chants bounced off the high ceilings of the terminal.
Francesco kept both hands around the Champions League trophy.
It was surprisingly difficult to carry through the crowd.
Not because of the weight.
Because every few steps someone would shout his name, and he would instinctively turn toward them.
"Francesco!"
He smiled.
A young boy near the barrier was holding a homemade sign.
THANK YOU FOR THE OVERHEAD KICK!
Francesco laughed when he saw it.
He pointed toward the boy.
The boy immediately jumped up and down.
His father grabbed his shoulders, laughing.
"Look! He saw you!"
Francesco lifted one hand in acknowledgement before continuing.
Another section of supporters began singing his name.
"FRANCESCO!"
The chant spread rapidly.
"FRANCESCO!"
"FRANCESCO!"
Francesco lowered his head for a moment, almost embarrassed by the attention.
Walker heard it and nudged him.
"Mate, they're not going to stop."
Francesco smiled.
"I noticed."
"You'd better get used to it."
Francesco raised the trophy slightly.
The reaction was immediate.
The noise rose another level.
Thousands of phones went into the air.
Camera flashes flickered across the terminal.
Francesco held the cup above his head for several seconds.
Then he lowered it carefully.
"Thank you!" he called toward the supporters.
The words disappeared beneath the noise, but the gesture was enough.
Wenger walked several steps behind him, surrounded by members of the coaching staff and security.
He kept smiling.
Every now and then a supporter shouted his name.
"ARSÈNE!"
Wenger would turn and wave.
One elderly supporter shouted:
"THANK YOU, BOSS!"
Wenger stopped for half a second.
He placed his hand against his chest.
Then nodded.
It was a tiny gesture.
But the supporter immediately became emotional.
The journey through the terminal continued.
It took far longer than anyone had expected.
The security team repeatedly had to slow the players down because supporters kept leaning forward, hoping for photographs or a handshake.
The players did their best.
Kanté stopped to shake hands with a row of supporters.
Van Dijk signed a shirt that had somehow made its way over the barrier.
Giroud took a photograph with a young fan who was crying so hard that his hands were shaking.
"Don't cry," Giroud told him with a laugh.
The boy shook his head.
"I'm not crying."
Giroud looked at him.
"You absolutely are."
The boy laughed through his tears.
Giroud put an arm around him for the photograph.
Francesco saw the moment and smiled.
There was something different about coming home.
Kyiv had belonged to the final.
London belonged to everything that came afterward.
The supporters were not celebrating a single goal anymore.
They were celebrating an entire season.
Four trophies.
Three consecutive Champions League titles.
A year of memories compressed into one enormous welcome.
Eventually the security corridor opened toward the exit.
The team bus waited outside.
Even there, the crowd hadn't disappeared.
Supporters had gathered behind additional barriers around the entrance, still singing as the players emerged.
The bus itself looked almost small against the number of people surrounding it.
"Keep moving," one security officer called gently.
The players began boarding.
Francesco paused at the bottom of the steps.
He turned toward the crowd one last time.
Then raised the trophy.
The supporters exploded again.
"ARSENAL!"
Francesco smiled.
He waved.
Then finally climbed aboard.
Walker followed.
Then Van Dijk.
Kanté.
Giroud.
Cazorla.
The rest of the squad.
Wenger entered after several members of the coaching staff, and eventually the remaining club personnel boarded.
The doors closed.
For a few seconds, nobody moved.
The players simply looked through the windows.
Outside, thousands of supporters continued singing.
Some were running alongside the bus for a few metres.
Others waved flags.
Children sat on their parents' shoulders.
Phones remained raised.
The bus slowly began moving.
The crowd parted reluctantly.
As the vehicle pulled away from the terminal, the chants continued.
Francesco watched until the last red-and-white flag disappeared behind them.
Only then did he sit back.
Walker dropped into the seat opposite him.
"That was insane."
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah."
"You realise we have another parade tomorrow?"
Francesco looked at him.
"Tomorrow?"
Walker laughed.
"I know. I barely know what day it is."
Francesco looked down at the trophy resting safely beside him.
"Me neither."
The bus turned onto the road.
London stretched beyond the windows.
The players were finally heading toward Colney.
As the familiar entrance to London Colney appeared later than expected.
The players had barely begun settling into the quieter rhythm of the journey when the bus slowed.
Francesco looked outside.
Then smiled.
The entire entrance was lined with Arsenal staff.
Not just coaches.
Everyone.
Analysts stood alongside medical personnel.
Academy staff stood beside administrative employees.
Groundskeepers had gathered near the entrance, still wearing work clothes.
Kit staff.
Physios.
Office workers.
Security.
People the players saw every single day.
People whose names supporters would never know.
People who had quietly contributed to the season without ever stepping onto the pitch.
The moment the bus doors opened, the applause began.
It was enormous.
Not the overwhelming roar of the stadium.
Something warmer.
Closer.
Personal.
Francesco stepped down first.
The Champions League trophy was still in his hands.
The staff erupted.
"CHAMPIONS!"
"COME ON!"
Francesco laughed.
He shook the hand of one of the groundskeepers.
"Thank you."
The man pulled him into a hug.
"You boys have done us proud."
Another staff member embraced Walker.
Someone else grabbed Giroud.
The players were swallowed by congratulations.
Months of work suddenly became visible in the faces around them.
A medical staff member who had spent countless hours treating tired legs.
An analyst who had stayed late preparing opposition reports.
A groundskeeper who had prepared the training pitches through every kind of weather.
Administrative staff who had organised travel, schedules and logistics.
Everyone was celebrating.
Francesco looked around.
"This is crazy."
Wenger smiled beside him.
"They earned this too."
Francesco nodded.
"I know."
After several minutes, the crowd began moving inside.
Francesco carried the trophy through the familiar corridors of London Colney.
The building felt strangely different.
He had walked these halls countless times.
He had arrived here early in the morning.
He had left late at night.
He had passed through these doors after defeats.
After victories.
After exhausting training sessions.
After difficult tactical meetings.
But today every corridor seemed to carry another meaning.
Eventually he reached the honours area.
One of the club staff members responsible for maintaining the display was waiting.
He looked at the trophy.
Then at Francesco.
"Ready?"
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah."
He carefully handed over the Champions League cup.
The staff member carried it toward the cabinet.
Inside were the trophies Arsenal had won during the campaign.
The Premier League.
The League Cup.
The FA Cup.
And now the Champions League.
The four pieces of silverware stood together.
Francesco remained a few steps away.
He didn't say anything.
He simply watched.
For the first time, the season looked complete in a way that the celebrations had not allowed him to appreciate.
The cabinet contained proof.
Not photographs.
Not newspaper headlines.
Not memories.
Four trophies.
One campaign.
Francesco folded his arms.
"That's something."
The staff member smiled.
"Quite a season."
"Yeah."
Francesco looked at the Champions League trophy one last time.
Then turned away.
He had barely taken three steps when Ivan Gazidis appeared.
"Everyone, could I have you for a moment?"
The players gathered.
Some were still carrying bags.
Others had bottles of water.
Giroud looked half asleep.
Gazidis smiled.
"I know you're exhausted."
A few players laughed.
"I suspect some of you aren't entirely certain what day it is."
Walker raised his hand.
"Correct."
The group laughed.
Gazidis continued.
"But tomorrow, we have one more important event."
Several players looked at one another.
"The parade through London."
The reaction was immediate.
Even the exhausted players suddenly looked more awake.
Giroud raised both hands.
"Tomorrow?"
Gazidis laughed.
"Yes. Tomorrow."
Francesco smiled.
The thought of seeing Arsenal supporters across London was already bringing energy back into the room.
Gazidis explained the arrangements.
The club had been coordinating the route.
Security.
Transport.
Crowd management.
Public celebrations.
Everything had to be organised carefully.
"And then," Gazidis added, "we have the World Cup schedule to consider."
A collective groan came from several players.
"Unfortunately," Gazidis said with a smile, "football doesn't stop simply because you've won everything."
Giroud shook his head.
"It should."
Everyone laughed.
Gazidis smiled.
"You'll have time to recover. Go home. See your families. Sleep properly. Eat properly. Look after yourselves."
He paused.
"Then tomorrow, you celebrate with the supporters."
That sentence received much louder applause.
Walker leaned toward Francesco.
"I can survive another day."
Francesco laughed.
"Same."
Gazidis nodded.
"Good. Because London is waiting."
The players began drifting away.
One by one, they collected their belongings.
Some had cars waiting.
Others had family transport.
A few were being driven home by club staff.
The atmosphere had become quieter.
The adrenaline had finally burned itself out.
Giroud hugged Van Dijk.
"See you tomorrow."
Van Dijk smiled.
"If I wake up."
"You will."
"I don't know."
They laughed.
Kanté hugged Cazorla.
Walker shook hands with several staff members.
Wenger stood near the entrance speaking quietly with members of his coaching team.
Francesco walked toward him.
"See you tomorrow, boss."
Wenger smiled.
"Get some rest."
"I'll try."
"Try harder than you did last night."
Francesco laughed.
"I'll do my best."
Wenger placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You deserve to enjoy this."
Francesco nodded.
"So do you."
They shook hands before embracing briefly.
Francesco then collected his belongings.
He walked toward the exit.
Outside, cars were beginning to pull away one after another.
The afternoon was calmer than the arrival had been.
No massive crowd.
No cameras everywhere.
Just tired champions going home.
Francesco stopped beside his car.
Before getting inside, he turned around.
London Colney stood behind him.
The training pitches.
The buildings.
The entrance.
And inside, behind the walls, the four trophies that had defined the greatest season Arsenal had ever experienced.
He looked toward the honours area.
For a moment he could almost picture the Champions League trophy sitting there beside the others.
Premier League.
League Cup.
FA Cup.
Champions League.
Four trophies.
Three consecutive European titles.
The first English club to complete the quadruple.
Francesco smiled to himself.
Tomorrow, the story would belong to London.
Thousands upon thousands of supporters would line the streets.
They would sing.
They would wave flags.
They would celebrate the team that had conquered England and Europe.
He opened the car door.
Then paused.
One last glance toward the training ground.
"See you tomorrow," he murmured.
He climbed inside.
The engine started.
And as Francesco drove away from London Colney, the fatigue finally began settling into his bones.
But beneath it was something stronger.
Anticipation.
Because the season might have ended in Kyiv.
The Champions League might already have found its place in the trophy cabinet.
The players might finally be going home.
But tomorrow, London would belong to Arsenal.
Then the following morning arrived far too quickly.
For Francesco, sleep had barely felt like sleep at all.
It had been more like a long, heavy pause between one celebration and the next.
When he finally woke, London sunlight was already spilling through the curtains. For a few seconds he remained still, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember what day it was.
Then it came back.
The parade.
He smiled.
"Right."
He reached for his phone.
There were already countless messages waiting for him, but before he could open any of them, there was a knock at the door.
Leah stepped inside.
She was smiling.
"You alive?"
Francesco looked at her.
"Barely."
She laughed.
"You look terrible."
"So do you."
"I know."
She walked over and kissed him.
"Ready?"
Francesco glanced toward the Champions League trophy, which had been carefully returned to its secured case for the journey.
"As ready as I can be."
Leah slipped her arm through his.
"Come on, champion."
They left together.
By the time they reached London Colney, the training ground was already beginning to fill.
Cars were arriving continuously.
Players emerged with their families.
Giroud appeared with his relatives, immediately laughing at something one of his children had said.
Walker arrived wearing sunglasses despite the relatively mild morning.
Van Dijk was carrying a coffee and looking as though he desperately needed another one.
Kanté arrived quietly, smiling when several staff members greeted him.
Alexis was already energetic enough for everyone else.
Francesco laughed when he saw him.
"You slept?"
Alexis shook his head.
"No."
"Same."
"Champions don't sleep."
Leah laughed.
"That's a terrible excuse."
Alexis grinned.
"Today, it is a good one."
The atmosphere around Colney felt completely different from the previous afternoon.
Yesterday had been about returning home.
Today was about celebrating.
Everywhere Francesco looked, there were signs of preparation.
Security personnel checked barriers.
Club staff moved between vehicles.
Photographers carried equipment toward the parade staging area.
Administrative staff spoke into radios.
Coaches greeted families.
Academy personnel gathered along the entrance.
And gradually, more and more people arrived.
Francesco hugged teammates as they passed.
He greeted their families.
He stopped to speak with members of the medical staff.
Someone from the analysis department shouted his name from across the courtyard.
"Francesco!"
He turned.
"Congratulations!"
"Thank you!"
The man laughed.
"Still can't believe it."
"Neither can I."
Leah remained beside him, occasionally slipping her hand into his.
Every few minutes Francesco would look around and simply smile.
This wasn't a match.
There was no opponent.
No pressure.
No tactical plan.
Just Arsenal.
Together.
Eventually a member of the club staff called everyone toward the entrance.
"The buses are ready!"
The players began moving outside.
And then Francesco saw them.
Six open-top buses waited in formation.
Their upper decks were prepared for the players, families and selected members of the club delegation.
But what immediately caught everyone's attention was the silverware.
The four trophies had been carefully distributed among the vehicles so supporters along the entire route would be able to see them.
The Premier League trophy.
The Carabao Cup.
The FA Cup.
And the Champions League trophy.
Francesco stopped walking.
"That's going to be something."
Walker stood beside him.
"That's going to be absolutely mental."
Francesco laughed.
Leah squeezed his hand.
"Ready for London?"
He looked toward the buses.
"Not even slightly."
She smiled.
"Good."
They boarded.
Francesco and Leah found their place among the squad.
Wenger and members of the coaching staff joined another section of the procession.
Players immediately began claiming positions beside the trophies.
Giroud stood next to the FA Cup and posed dramatically.
"Perfect."
Cazorla laughed.
"You look ridiculous."
"I look magnificent."
Walker lifted his phone.
"Wait, stay there."
The camera clicked.
Giroud looked at the photograph.
"Excellent."
"Your head is behind the trophy."
"Art."
Francesco laughed.
He took his own phone out.
"Come here."
Leah moved beside him.
They took a photograph together.
Behind them, the squad was already descending into chaos.
Alexis waved a huge Arsenal flag.
Xhaka had a scarf wrapped around his shoulders.
Van Dijk was taking photographs with several staff members.
Kanté stood beside the Premier League trophy, smiling shyly while everyone around him shouted for him to look toward the camera.
Francesco took another picture.
Then another.
"Stop," Leah said, laughing.
"Why?"
"You're becoming a photographer."
"I need evidence."
"Of what?"
"That this actually happened."
She looked at him.
"You have four trophies."
"I know."
"That's pretty good evidence."
Francesco smiled.
"Still taking pictures."
The buses eventually began moving.
The procession had officially started.
At first the players could still see ordinary London streets.
Then they turned toward the main route.
And everything changed.
Red.
Everywhere.
The streets were packed.
Pavements disappeared beneath crowds.
Balconies were covered in Arsenal flags.
Windows had been opened.
People stood on bridges and rooftops.
Scarves stretched from one side of the road to the other.
Children sat on their parents' shoulders.
Older supporters stood beside younger generations of their families.
There were banners.
Drums.
Smoke.
Flares.
Thousands upon thousands of phones.
And noise.
So much noise that Francesco instinctively looked at Leah.
She was laughing.
"Wow."
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
The bus moved at barely more than walking pace.
Security and police personnel maintained a protected corridor around the vehicles, constantly monitoring the crowd and keeping people away from the route.
But even with all the preparation, the sheer number of supporters made progress incredibly slow.
The players didn't mind.
Nobody wanted it to go faster.
Every few metres another group of supporters would begin chanting.
"ARSENAL!"
The players responded.
"ARSENAL!"
Then another section.
"CHAMPIONS!"
Francesco raised both hands.
The crowd roared.
Someone began chanting his name.
"FRANCESCO!"
Another group joined.
"FRANCESCO!"
Within seconds, the chant had travelled down the street.
Francesco looked almost embarrassed.
Leah laughed.
"They're doing it again."
He shook his head.
"I don't know what to do."
"Wave."
He waved.
The reaction became even louder.
Francesco laughed.
"Apparently that works."
He stepped beside the Champions League trophy and raised one hand toward the crowd.
The silver cup gleamed beneath the daylight.
The response was enormous.
Supporters screamed.
Flags rose.
Cameras flashed.
People pointed toward the trophy.
Some supporters were visibly crying.
Francesco swallowed.
He suddenly understood something.
This wasn't really about the final anymore.
The people surrounding them weren't celebrating only the 3–2 victory over Real Madrid.
They were celebrating everything.
The Premier League.
The Carabao Cup.
The FA Cup.
The Champions League.
Three consecutive European titles.
An entire season of work.
Months of training.
Travel.
Pressure.
Injuries.
Difficult matches.
Comebacks.
Everything had led here.
Leah leaned closer.
"You're thinking."
Francesco nodded.
"Just looking at them."
She looked toward the crowd.
"They've waited a long time for this."
He smiled.
"So have we."
She rested her head briefly against his shoulder.
For a few seconds, despite the thousands of people surrounding them, it felt strangely private.
Then Giroud ruined the moment.
"FRANCESCO!"
Francesco turned.
Giroud was holding up his phone.
"Photo!"
Francesco laughed.
"Again?"
"Yes!"
Leah joined them.
Walker squeezed into the frame.
Van Dijk appeared behind them.
Kanté was pulled in at the last second.
Click.
The photograph captured six exhausted faces, a trophy, a sea of supporters and a ridiculous amount of movement in the background.
Francesco looked at it afterward.
Everyone was laughing.
He smiled.
"That's a good one."
"Obviously," Giroud said.
"You're barely visible."
"Art."
Everyone laughed.
A little farther along the route, the buses passed beneath a bridge completely covered in Arsenal banners.
The supporters above began singing.
The sound rolled down toward the players.
Francesco raised his scarf.
The entire squad joined in.
Wenger stood near the front of his bus, applauding the supporters.
A group of young fans spotted him.
"ARSÈNE!"
Wenger pointed toward them and smiled.
Francesco watched his manager for a moment.
The man had guided them through everything.
The tactical meetings.
The pressure.
The injuries.
The impossible expectations.
And now he was standing on an open-top bus watching London celebrate his team.
Francesco walked over.
"Photo, boss?"
Wenger smiled.
"Of course."
Leah joined them.
Then several players crowded in.
The camera clicked.
Wenger looked at the photograph.
"You are all too close."
Giroud immediately answered.
"That's because we're family."
Wenger laughed.
"Fair enough."
The bus continued.
The further they travelled through Islington and North London, the larger the crowds seemed to become.
There were moments when Francesco could barely see the road ahead.
The procession moved through a living wall of red and white.
Supporters leaned from windows.
People waved from balconies.
Huge banners stretched above the streets.
Some displayed Arsenal legends.
Others simply read:
QUADRUPLE CHAMPIONS.
Another read:
THREE IN A ROW.
Francesco stopped when he saw a family holding a sign.
THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING.
He placed his hand over his heart.
The father raised a fist.
Francesco nodded.
The mother waved.
Their little daughter blew him a kiss.
He blew one back.
Leah smiled.
"You're going to cry."
"No."
"You are."
"I'm not."
She looked at him.
"Your eyes are red."
"It's the smoke."
"Sure."
He laughed.
"Maybe a little."
The procession continued.
Alexis began dancing.
Walker joined him.
Giroud waved a scarf above his head.
Xhaka started singing.
Van Dijk clapped rhythmically.
Cazorla took photographs of the crowd rather than himself.
The players were completely absorbed in the moment.
The trophies moved from one side of the buses to another.
Different players stood beside them.
Different combinations formed for photographs.
Families joined.
Staff joined.
Coaches joined.
At one point Francesco and Leah stood beside all four trophies together.
The photographer took several shots.
Then Francesco looked at the silverware.
"Four."
Leah smiled.
"Four."
He shook his head.
"Still feels strange."
She touched his arm.
"Maybe tomorrow it'll feel real."
He laughed.
"Maybe."
Another roar suddenly erupted ahead.
The bus slowed even further.
A huge group of supporters had filled the street.
Red flares burned among the crowd.
Smoke drifted upward.
Arsenal flags moved everywhere.
The chant began.
"ARSENAL!"
The players responded.
"ARSENAL!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
Then Francesco's name.
"FRANCESCO!"
The players around him immediately started laughing.
Walker put an arm around his shoulders.
"That's you."
"I know."
"Go on."
Francesco stepped forward.
He lifted the Champions League trophy.
The crowd exploded.
For several seconds he simply stood there.
The cup above his head.
The sunlight reflecting from the silver.
The red-and-white crowd stretching farther than he could see.
Leah stood beside him, smiling and waving.
Francesco lowered the trophy.
He looked at her.
"This is crazy."
She nodded.
"Completely."
He laughed.
"I'm never forgetting this."
"Neither am I."
They took another photograph.
This one was different.
Neither looked toward the camera.
They were looking at the supporters.
At the city.
At the celebration.
At everything they had somehow become part of.
The five-mile route seemed to have no end.
Yet nobody wanted it to.
Every street brought another wave of supporters.
Another song.
Another banner.
Another photograph.
Another moment that would eventually become a memory.
Francesco kept thinking about the beginning of the season.
The first training sessions.
The pressure.
The matches.
The nights when everything seemed difficult.
The days when exhaustion had settled into his body.
The moments when teammates had lifted one another.
The final against Real Madrid.
The overhead kick.
The trophy.
And now this.
London.
His city.
Arsenal's city.
The entire club moving through it together.
He looked toward Wenger.
Toward his teammates.
Toward Leah.
Then toward the trophies.
For once, there was no question about whether it had all been worth it.
Of course it had.
The bus continued toward the Emirates.
The streets remained packed.
The chants became louder.
The flags kept moving.
The cameras never stopped.
Francesco stood beside Leah, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other occasionally reaching toward the trophy.
She leaned against him.
He smiled.
Behind them, Giroud was singing.
Walker was taking another selfie.
Kanté was laughing.
Van Dijk had his arm around Cazorla.
Alexis was waving a giant flag.
Wenger stood among his coaching staff, applauding the supporters.
The four trophies gleamed beneath the afternoon sunlight.
And around them, London continued to roar.
Francesco looked across the endless red-and-white crowd and understood that this moment was bigger than any individual goal.
Bigger than him.
Bigger than the final.
It belonged to everyone.
The players.
The manager.
The staff.
Their families.
The club.
And every supporter who had filled those streets to welcome them home.
He smiled.
Leah looked at him.
"What?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing."
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Thinking too much."
Francesco laughed.
"Maybe."
She squeezed his hand.
"Enjoy it."
He looked toward the crowd once more.
"I am."
The buses continued slowly toward the Emirates Stadium.
Around them, an endless sea of red and white stretched through North London.
The trophies remained visible above the players.
Cameras recorded every second.
Supporters sang until their voices cracked.
And Francesco stood beside Leah, surrounded by his teammates and his manager, smiling beneath the London sky.
The season had already entered history.
But the parade was giving them one final gift.
A memory that belonged not only to the people who had won the trophies, but to everyone who had believed in them.
And as the six buses continued their journey home, Francesco knew that years from now, long after the shirts had been retired and the photographs had faded, he would still remember this.
The sound.
The faces.
The flags.
Leah beside him.
His teammates laughing.
Wenger smiling.
And four trophies shining above an ocean of Arsenal supporters as for the rest of their lives, they would carry this day with them.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, FA Cup 2016/2017, 2016/2017 Champions League, 2017/2018 Carabao Cup, Premier League 2017/2018, FA Cup 2017/2018, and Champions League 2017/2018.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 59
Goal: 76
Assist: 6
MOTM: 7
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 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