If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon Tang12!!!
______________________________
(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give power stones on Skyrim!)
...
Players embraced across the pitch as some exhausted, some elated, some contemplative. United's players trudged toward their supporters, acknowledging them with brief gestures, while Arsenal's remained on the field, applauding the crowd, soaking in the atmosphere.
Francesco stayed seated for a moment longer than he needed to.
The noise was still pouring down from the stands, a living thing that pressed against his chest, but from the bench it felt different that filtered, slightly distant, as if he were watching the night from behind glass. He pulled the towel from around his shoulders and wiped his face slowly, breathing evening air mixed with sweat, grass, and adrenaline.
Six–two.
He let that settle.
Not as a number, not as a headline, but as a feeling. As weight lifting off shoulders that had been carrying expectation for weeks. As proof that the work, the restraint, the patience because that it all mattered.
On the pitch, his teammates were still scattered in clusters. Some stood hands on hips, staring up into the stands. Others laughed, arms around each other's shoulders. A few knelt briefly, palms on the turf, grounding themselves before standing again.
Wenger clapped once, twice, then nodded toward the bench.
Francesco rose.
The moment his boots touched the grass again, the sound shifted. Not louder, exactly but warmer. His name rippled across the Emirates in waves, chanted not urgently, not pleadingly, but with something closer to gratitude. He raised a hand in acknowledgment, then another, his expression softening as he walked back into the heart of it all.
This was the part that stayed with you.
Near the center circle, Wayne Rooney was waiting.
Not theatrically. Just there, hands on hips, eyes scanning the stands for a moment before settling on Francesco. The two captains approached each other naturally, no rush, no posturing. When they met, they shook hands firmly.
"Well played," Rooney said first, voice steady.
"You too," Francesco replied. "That free kick—"
Rooney cut in with a faint smile. "Had to try something."
They stood there for a second longer than necessary, the game already behind them but the shared understanding of it still present. They'd been opponents for years now, crossed paths in different phases of their careers, different versions of themselves.
"Good luck in Europe," Rooney added. "Go win it."
Francesco nodded. "We'll try."
There was no bitterness in Rooney's eyes. No frustration spilling over. Just professionalism, respect, and maybe a flicker of acceptance.
Then Rooney tugged at the hem of his shirt.
"Swap?" he asked.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Of course."
They peeled the shirts off there and then, under the floodlights, the crowd reacting instantly when they realized what was happening. Francesco handed his Arsenal shirt over carefully, smoothing it once before passing it across. Rooney did the same with his Manchester United red, slightly heavier, still warm.
For a moment, Francesco held it.
Not as a trophy. Not sentimentally.
Just acknowledging what it represented.
They shook hands again, firmer this time, and went their separate ways.
Francesco pulled on a spare top from the sideline staff, then moved through the United players who lingered nearby. He shook hands with Carrick, exchanged a few words with De Gea that brief, respectful. He patted Rashford lightly on the shoulder as they passed, murmured something encouraging. A nod to Smalling. A quiet exchange with Herrera, both men understanding how quickly nights like this could turn in the opposite direction.
Football memory was short.
Respect was longer.
As United drifted away toward their supporters, Arsenal gathered near the center circle. Wenger stood just outside the group, letting the moment belong to the players. Francesco felt a familiar tug in his chest that not instruction, not obligation, but instinct.
He clapped once, loud.
Heads turned.
"Alright," he said, voice carrying easily. "Let's do it properly."
They didn't need clarification.
The team began to move together, walking slowly toward the East Stand first, applauding. Hands raised. Faces open. They didn't rush it. Each section of the stadium was acknowledged, not as background noise but as part of the night itself.
When they reached the halfway line, Francesco angled his body slightly, subtly guiding the group toward the North Bank.
That was always the last stop.
The North Bank had a different energy. Always had. It wasn't just noise as it was belief sharpened into sound. Generations layered over each other. Songs that didn't fade even when results did. Faith that outlived managers, squads, eras.
As they approached, the volume climbed.
Scarves were raised high, red and white forming a living wall. The chant rolled out in unison, not frantic, not desperate, but proud.
Francesco slowed, then stopped entirely.
He turned to face them fully.
For a moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes scanning faces from young, old, familiar, new. Some of them he'd seen dozens of times. Some only tonight. All of them had invested something into this club, into these players.
He raised both arms.
The roar surged.
Then he clapped slowly, deliberately, setting the rhythm. His teammates followed, the sound echoing back toward the stands. He nodded once, deeply, the gesture carrying more weight than any speech could.
Thank you.
Not for tonight.
For everything.
Alexis stood beside him, grinning, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead. Ramsey leaned forward slightly, hands on knees, soaking it in. Giroud glanced up at the stands, eyes shining, chest rising as if he were imprinting the moment onto his memory.
Even Kanté smiled, small but genuine.
They stayed there longer than protocol usually allowed. Nobody rushed them. Not the officials. Not the stewards. Not Wenger.
This wasn't a moment to hurry.
Eventually, Francesco lowered his arms and turned back toward the group.
"Good work," he said quietly, but they all heard it.
They headed toward the tunnel together, still applauding, still acknowledging every last corner of the stadium.
They were almost at the tunnel when the call came.
"Francesco. Olivier."
Both men turned instinctively, bodies still warm, minds only half out of the match. An FA staff member stood a few steps away, headset on, clipboard tucked under his arm, already smiling in that practiced, professional way that meant there was no real choice in the matter.
"Pitchside interview," he said. "Won't take long."
Francesco glanced at Giroud.
Giroud shrugged lightly, that familiar half-smile already forming. "Go on, captain. One more job."
Francesco exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself. He nodded once.
They peeled away from the group, boots clicking against the concrete as they followed the staff member back toward the touchline. The stadium was still loud, though the edge had softened. Fans lingered in their seats, reluctant to let the night end, phones raised, scarves draped over shoulders.
As they stepped back out into the open, a fresh ripple of applause rolled through the stands. Francesco felt it again with that warmth, that sense of being held up by something bigger than himself. He adjusted the spare top at his collar, then squared his shoulders.
The camera crew was already set.
Bright lights flared on, momentarily blinding. A microphone was clipped to his shirt, another to Giroud's. The interviewer which a familiar face from Premier League broadcasts stood between them, beaming.
"Gentlemen," he began, turning slightly so the camera could frame all three, "congratulations to both of you. A huge result tonight. Arsenal six, Manchester United two. Francesco, Olivier, well played."
"Thank you," Francesco said, voice steady.
Giroud nodded. "Merci."
The interviewer turned first to Francesco.
"Let's start with you," he said. "Captain tonight, two goals, one assist, and a performance that really set the tone. How does it feel to come out and beat one of your biggest rivals by such a commanding scoreline?"
Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He took a breath, eyes drifting briefly toward the North Bank, where a cluster of fans were still singing softly, almost to themselves. When he spoke, it wasn't with bravado.
"It feels… earned," he said finally. "That's the word. We've had weeks where the margins were tight, where the work didn't always show on the scoreboard. Tonight, it did. Not because we disrespected them or went chasing a score, but because we stayed disciplined. We stayed together."
The interviewer nodded, encouraging him on.
"Did it feel like one of those nights where everything clicked?"
"In moments," Francesco replied. "Not the whole time. They pushed us, especially after halftime. That's a top side over there. You relax for five minutes, and they punish you. But when we needed control, we found it again. That's the part I'm proud of."
The interviewer smiled, then shifted his attention to Giroud.
"Olivier, you came on late, but once again you make an impact. A goal, great movement, and another example of you changing the game from the bench. How does it feel to keep delivering like this, time after time?"
Giroud laughed softly, shaking his head.
"It feels good," he said honestly. "Very good. Of course, every striker wants to start, to play ninety minutes. I am human." He tapped his chest lightly. "But football is about moments. The team needs something different, and when my moment comes, I am ready."
He glanced briefly at Francesco, then back to the interviewer.
"I work hard. I stay patient. And when the ball comes," he spread his hands slightly, smiling, "I try to do what I do best."
The interviewer raised an eyebrow playfully. "Which is score goals."
Giroud grinned wider. "Exactly."
The crowd responded with appreciative laughter and applause, even from this distance.
The interviewer turned back to Francesco.
"Francesco, from the pitch, it looked like you were orchestrating more than just the attack tonight with dropping deep, pulling defenders, creating space. How important was that balance between scoring and leading?"
Francesco considered the question carefully.
"When you wear the armband," he said, "you don't get the luxury of choosing just one role. Some nights you score. Some nights you run. Some nights you talk more than you touch the ball. Tonight asked for a bit of everything."
He paused, then added, quieter but firm, "Leadership isn't always loud. Sometimes it's knowing when to slow things down. When to trust the players around you."
The interviewer nodded, clearly pleased with the answer, then glanced down at his notes.
"Now," he said, tone shifting slightly, "we have to talk about what comes next."
The crowd murmured, already anticipating it.
"Midweek," the interviewer continued, "Champions League semifinal, second leg, away at the Wanda Metropolitano. Atlético Madrid. One of the toughest places to go in Europe. Francesco, are you ready for that challenge?"
The lights seemed a little brighter suddenly.
Francesco felt the weight of the question that not as pressure, but as responsibility. He didn't rush his answer.
"We're ready to compete," he said. "That's the honest answer. Atlético don't give you anything. They make you suffer for every inch. We know that. We respect that."
He looked straight into the camera now.
"But we didn't come this far to be cautious. We came to believe we belong at that level. Nights like this help, not because of the scoreline, but because of the mentality."
The interviewer turned to Giroud again.
"Olivier, from your perspective m, coming into a match like that, knowing chances may be limited, how do you prepare mentally?"
Giroud's expression softened slightly, becoming more thoughtful.
"You prepare by accepting the challenge," he said. "Atlético is not a game for ego. It is a game for patience, for discipline. You may get one chance. Maybe two. And when it comes, you must be calm."
He smiled again, smaller this time. "I like those games."
The interviewer laughed. "Of course you do."
The interviewer listened to Giroud's last answer with a knowing smile, then took a small step back, allowing the camera to widen its frame. He glanced down briefly, as if confirming something in his earpiece, then nodded once.
"Alright," he said, lifting his voice slightly so it carried over the ambient noise of the stadium. "Before we wrap up, we have one more thing to do."
A subtle shift ran through the crowd nearest the touchline. A few people leaned forward, sensing it.
The interviewer turned toward a nearby assistant, who stepped in holding a small, sleek plaque that polished, understated, the Premier League lion etched into its surface. The assistant handed it over with both hands.
"Tonight's Man of the Match," the interviewer continued, now fully facing the camera, "goes to Arsenal's captain. Two goals, one assist, and a performance that set the standard from the first minute to the last."
He turned and extended the award toward Francesco.
"Congratulations."
For a fraction of a second, Francesco simply stared at it.
Not because he was surprise, but because moments like this always felt slightly unreal when you were still breathing hard, still sweating, still half inside the match. Then he took it, fingers closing around the edge of the plaque, its cool surface grounding him.
The stadium reacted immediately.
A fresh wave of applause rose, louder than before, punctuated by chants of his name rolling down from the stands. Francesco lifted the award slightly, not above his head, just enough to acknowledge it. He nodded once, then again, his expression a mixture of pride and humility.
"Thank you," he said simply into the microphone.
The interviewer smiled, satisfied, and then turned back toward the camera one last time.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, voice bright and conclusive, "congratulations again. A huge night here at the Emirates, Arsenal six, Manchester United two. And best of luck in Madrid."
"Thank you," Francesco said.
"Thank you," Giroud echoed.
The microphones were unclipped with practiced efficiency. The bright lights dimmed, their intensity fading until the night felt normal again. The camera crew began to pack up, cables coiled, lenses capped, attention already shifting elsewhere as broadcasts moved on.
For Francesco, the sudden quiet was almost disorienting.
Giroud leaned in slightly as they stepped away from the touchline, lowering his voice.
"Good answers, captain," he murmured, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Francesco chuckled softly. "You too, super sub."
They bumped shoulders lightly that nothing exaggerated, just the kind of contact that said everything words didn't need to. Then they turned together and headed back toward the tunnel.
The stadium was emptier now.
Whole sections were already bare, plastic seats glinting under the floodlights. A few pockets of supporters remained, lingering, reluctant to let go of the night. Some waved. Some applauded again as Francesco passed. One young fan near the front row held up a scarf and shouted his name until his voice cracked.
Francesco raised a hand in acknowledgment, the MOTM plaque tucked under his arm now, forgotten but not unappreciated.
With each step, the fatigue deepened.
It wasn't the sharp exhaustion of being out of breath. It was heavier than that, settling into his calves, his lower back, his shoulders. The kind of tiredness that only came when you'd given everything and then some. It wrapped around him like a blanket as he crossed the threshold into the tunnel.
The acoustics changed instantly.
The roar of the stadium gave way to echoes with boots striking concrete, laughter bouncing off walls, the metallic clatter of studs being dropped into bins. The smell shifted too: less grass, more disinfectant, steam, liniment.
Some of the players were already ahead of them, shirts slung over shoulders, conversations overlapping.
"Six, man," someone said, disbelief still in his voice.
"Did you see that Xhaka hit?" another replied.
Francesco walked on, nodding here, smiling there, absorbing it all without needing to dominate it. Leadership didn't always mean speaking. Sometimes it meant simply being present.
As he stepped back into the dressing room, a few heads turned immediately.
"Captain!" someone called. "Good interview."
Francesco waved it off with a half-smile. "All lies," he joked lightly.
Laughter rippled through the room.
He grabbed his water bottle from beneath the bench and took a long drink, the coolness a relief against his throat. He sat down slowly, elbows resting on his knees, and let his head drop forward for a moment. He rolled his neck once, then again, easing the stiffness out.
The dressing room was alive now in that post-match way.
Some players were already shirtless, peeling tape from wrists, boots kicked off carelessly. Others still sat fully dressed, staring at nothing in particular, replaying moments in their heads. Music played quietly from a speaker in the corner—nothing too loud yet, just a background rhythm.
Across the room, Giroud was already peeling off his kit, humming quietly to himself, as if the night had settled into his bones in a particularly pleasant way.
Francesco glanced down at the MOTM award resting beside him on the bench.
He turned it over once in his hands, then placed it gently into his bag. There would be time to think about it later. Right now, it was just another detail in a much bigger picture.
"Shower before the water's gone cold," someone called out.
That was all the motivation he needed.
He stood, stretching his arms above his head, then made his way toward the showers. The tiled room was already filling with steam, voices echoing as players laughed, debated moments, re-lived goals in fragments.
The water hit his shoulders with a force that made him exhale sharply.
Hot.
Perfect.
He leaned his forehead briefly against the tile, eyes closed, letting the water wash away sweat, grass, tension. The match replayed itself in flashes from Rooney's free kick bending impossibly, Alexis' finish, Xhaka's strike, the weight of the armband against his chest.
Six–two.
He smiled to himself.
Around him, snippets of conversation drifted through the steam.
"Madrid's going to be different, though."
"Yeah, but that's the point."
"We owe them."
Francesco didn't join in. Not because he didn't care, but because he was already there in his head. He knew what awaited them at the Wanda Metropolitano. The hostility. The noise. The way Atlético squeezed games until they felt like they were being played in a phone booth.
He finished showering, dried off slowly, then pulled on the Arsenal tracksuit laid out neatly on the bench. The fabric was soft, familiar, a small comfort after ninety minutes of battle.
Back in the main dressing area, the mood had shifted again.
Calmer now. Content.
Players sat in tracksuits or fresh kits, scrolling through phones, checking messages, sending quick replies to family, friends, people who'd been watching. Laughter flared occasionally, then settled.
Francesco took his seat again, lacing up trainers, feeling the stiffness set in properly now that adrenaline had faded. He leaned back, eyes half-closed, listening.
A staff member popped his head in.
"Bus in ten," he said. "Manager and Santi will join after the press."
Francesco nodded. "Got it."
They filtered out gradually, grabbing bags, slinging backpacks over shoulders. The corridor to the parking area was quieter, footsteps more measured now.
Outside, the night air felt cooler against his skin.
The team bus waited with its engine idling softly, lights glowing from inside. One by one, players climbed aboard, greeting the driver, collapsing into seats, stretching legs out into the aisle.
Francesco took his usual spot, near the front but not quite the first row. He set his bag down, leaned back, and finally allowed himself to sink into the seat fully.
The city lights slipped past the windows slowly as the bus pulled away from the stadium.
Inside, it was a mix of quiet conversations and comfortable silence. Some players had headphones in now. Others stared out the window. A few rewatched clips on their phones, shaking heads in disbelief or laughing softly.
Francesco looked down at his hands.
They still trembled faintly that not from nerves, but from expenditure. He flexed his fingers, then rested them on his thighs.
Madrid.
The word surfaced again, unbidden.
He welcomed it.
The bus slowed near the exit, then stopped briefly as staff coordinated movement. Wenger and Cazorla weren't aboard yet, still handling media duties, but that was fine. There was no rush.
The bus idled for another minute, then another.
Somewhere near the stadium exit, voices drifted faintly through the open door with security staff coordinating, someone laughing, a radio crackling. Inside, the players remained where they were, suspended in that soft, post-match limbo where the body finally slows but the mind hasn't yet followed.
Francesco rested his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded. The MOTM plaque was zipped safely inside his bag at his feet. He wasn't thinking about it anymore. His thoughts had already begun stretching forward, unspooling toward what came next.
Madrid.
Not the romance of it. Not the skyline or the cafes or the history. Just the pitch. The noise. The pressure.
The bus door finally hissed open again, and Wenger climbed aboard with Cazorla just behind him. A few players straightened instinctively. Wenger nodded once, a small smile creasing his face, then made his way down the aisle.
"Good work tonight," he said simply, voice calm but satisfied. "Enjoy it. Tomorrow will be light."
That earned a few murmurs of approval.
Cazorla followed, moving more slowly, dropping into a seat near the middle. He caught Francesco's eye and gave him a small thumbs-up. Francesco returned it, grateful. The presence of both men settled the group completely. The night was officially over now.
The bus pulled away in earnest.
London slid past in streaks of amber and white, traffic thinning the further they went. One by one, conversations faded. Heads tilted against windows. Music hummed quietly through headphones. Someone snored softly near the back.
Francesco stayed awake a little longer than most.
He watched reflections ripple across the glass, his own face appearing and disappearing between passing lights. The exhaustion was deep now, but it was clean. Honest. The kind that came from purpose fulfilled.
Eventually, his eyes closed.
The next morning arrived gently.
No alarms blaring. No rush. Just the soft glow of daylight filtering through curtains and the low hum of movement in the hotel corridors. Francesco woke slowly, body stiff but manageable, muscles reminding him politely, insistently of the work they'd done.
Breakfast was quiet.
As Leah and him are eating breakfast and enjoy their moment together. There was laughter here and there, but nothing loud. Then after breakfast, he gather his stuff and drove toward Colney for recovery day.
When he arrive and went to the dressing room and change to the training kit, then they gathered mid-morning at the training center, the atmosphere deliberately subdued. No boots. No balls. Just physios, ice baths, massage tables, and stationary bikes.
Francesco spent the first hour moving through a familiar routine.
Ice bath first.
He lowered himself in slowly, teeth clenching as the cold bit immediately into skin and muscle. He closed his eyes, breathing through it, letting the shock do its work. Across the room, someone swore under their breath as they did the same.
"Never gets easier," Ramsey muttered from the next tub.
Francesco smiled faintly. "Lies. They tell us it does."
From there, it was foam rolling, stretching, targeted massage. The physio worked methodically along Francesco's calves and hamstrings, fingers finding knots and coaxing them loose.
"How's the load?" the physio asked.
"Manageable," Francesco replied honestly. "Heavy, but clean."
The physio nodded. "That's what we want."
After lunch, there was a brief meeting.
No tactics. No video. Just Wenger, standing calmly at the front of the room.
"Yesterday is finished," he said. "You earned it. Now we prepare again."
No one needed more than that.
The following two days were different.
Intensive.
Purposeful.
The tempo rose immediately. Boots back on. Balls flying. Shouts cutting through the air. The sessions were sharp, designed not to exhaust but to focus and to simulate moments, patterns, pressure.
Atlético Madrid lived in every drill.
Compact blocks.
Quick transitions.
Defensive shape snapping into place the moment possession was lost.
Wenger and the coaching staff stopped play often, repositioning players by inches, by half-steps.
"Here," Wenger said at one point, physically moving Kanté two feet to the left. "If they press like this, your outlet is here, not there."
Francesco listened closely.
In small-sided games, he was asked to play deeper at times, sometimes higher, sometimes wide. Wenger wanted flexibility. Options. Solutions for when the match inevitably turned hostile.
"Three-goal advantage," Wenger reminded them once, voice steady. "But you play like it's zero-zero."
Nobody argued.
By the end of the second intensive day, legs were heavy again, but minds were clear. The work had been done. Now it was about trust.
The next morning came early.
Suitcases lined the corridor outside the hotel rooms. The bus waited. The mood was different now that quieter, sharper. This wasn't a domestic trip. This was Europe.
Francesco boarded with his headphones around his neck, bag slung over one shoulder. He took his seat, watching teammates file in. No jokes. No music yet. Just focus.
At the airport, the routine was seamless. Security. Passport control. A few fans waiting behind barriers, scarves raised, phones out. Francesco signed a couple of shirts, nodded, smiled briefly. Then it was time to go.
On the plane, players spread out, some immediately settling into seats with tablets and laptops, reviewing clips. Others leaned back, eyes closed. Francesco chose a window seat, looking out as the runway stretched ahead.
As the plane lifted, London fell away beneath them.
He watched the city shrink, clouds swallowing familiar shapes, until there was nothing but white and blue.
Madrid awaited.
The descent came hours later.
The land beneath them changed color with warmer tones, sun-baked browns and greens. The light felt different even from above, sharper, brighter.
When the plane touched down, applause rippled through the cabin that not celebration, but habit.
At the terminal, the heat hit immediately.
Dry. Clean. Unapologetic.
The team bus waited just beyond arrivals, sleek and black, Arsenal crest shining on its side. Police escorts were already in place. Madrid didn't take chances on European nights.
As they pulled away from the airport, Francesco watched the city unfold.
Wide roads. Low buildings. Bursts of color. Banners already hanging in places with red and white, unmistakable. Atlético territory.
No one spoke much.
The hotel rose ahead of them eventually, modern and understated, tucked slightly away from the city's core. Arsenal staff had done their work well. Privacy. Space. Control.
Check-in was efficient.
Rooms were assigned. Keys handed out. Bags delivered.
Francesco dropped his suitcase just inside his room and crossed immediately to the window. Madrid stretched out before him, sun hanging low now, casting long shadows.
He didn't linger.
At the appointed time, they reconvened.
Training gear on. Focus sharpened.
The bus took them across the city to Rayo Vallecano's training ground, a facility chosen deliberately that neutral, functional, away from Atlético's immediate influence.
As they stepped off the bus, the pitch lay pristine under the afternoon sun.
Grass perfect.
Goals standing silently.
This was the last real work before the battle.
The session began lightly.
Warm-ups. Rondos. Passing drills.
Then it intensified.
Pressing patterns. Defensive shape. Set pieces rehearsed again and again. Wenger was active, vocal now, stopping play, correcting angles, emphasizing distances.
"Closer," he called. "Always closer."
Francesco moved through it all with quiet authority.
He spoke when needed. Listened when spoken to. Adjusted instinctively. The three-goal advantage hovered unspoken in everyone's mind that not as comfort, but as responsibility.
Because Atlético Madrid would come.
At the Wanda Metropolitano, they always did.
The session ended as the sun dipped lower, casting the pitch in gold.
Players gathered briefly at the center circle. Wenger spoke one last time.
"This is enough," he said. "Now we rest. Tomorrow we sharpen. Then we compete."
As they walked off the pitch, Francesco felt it clearly. The calm before the storm as the work was done, and the night would come soon enough.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
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, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 49
Goal: 79
Assist: 4
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