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When the referee's whistle sounded again to start extra time, the night seemed to hold its breath. The air was thicker now, the tension tangible. The grass, trampled and damp, reflected the floodlights like thin glass.
The whistle's shrill cry cut through the heavy air, and for a heartbeat, the Stade de France seemed to hold still — a coliseum waiting to see who would break first.
Then the extra time first half began.
And it was war again.
England and France threw themselves back into the fray, their bodies aching, their lungs burning, but their wills unbroken. You could see it in their faces — the grim resolve, the clench of the jaw, the narrowed eyes that said there was still something left to give.
Every player knew this was the edge of everything.
One mistake, and a nation would fall silent.
One moment of courage, and another would erupt into history.
The ball rolled out from Dier's boots toward Henderson, and instantly blue shirts surged forward — pressing, biting, snapping at England's heels. The French weren't done. Far from it. They were desperate to reclaim their rhythm, to wrestle back control of the tempo before England's growing confidence suffocated them.
"Keep it moving!" Rooney barked, voice hoarse from shouting. "Don't let them settle!"
Francesco nodded as he drifted between the lines, reading the space as though it were music only he could hear. The ball reached him near the halfway line, a sharp pass from Dier that skidded over the slick grass. Francesco's first touch killed it dead — elegant, effortless — and with that one touch he drew in Matuidi, baiting the challenge.
He rolled it back with his sole, spun, and flicked it left to Rose, who was already surging up the flank. The move opened France for half a second — just half — but it was enough to remind them that England weren't playing to survive. They were playing to win.
Matuidi barked orders, Pogba gestured wildly to adjust shape.
Deschamps, on the sideline, was pacing again — jaw tight, eyes locked on Francesco. The English forward had been tormenting his midfield all night, ghosting between zones, forcing them to play narrower than they wanted.
But France were still dangerous.
Always dangerous.
When Pogba got his first real touch of extra time, the noise swelled — "Allez, allez, Pogba!" — and he did what he did best: shrugged off Henderson with a rolling shoulder, spun into space, and launched a long diagonal toward Payet.
Payet controlled it masterfully, killing the pace with one touch, and then turned to face Walker.
A quick feint, a dart inside, and he rifled a low cross toward the near post.
Giroud was there — again.
He got a toe on it, just enough to change the ball's direction.
For a split second, the stadium gasped — it was heading for the bottom corner — until Hart, full stretch, fingertipped it away.
The crowd roared, half in awe, half in despair.
Hart stayed down for a moment, clutching his ribs, the grass sticking to his gloves.
"Brilliant save!" shouted Gary Neville from the sideline, voice cracking with adrenaline.
Hodgson didn't even flinch — just gave a slow nod. "That's why he's there."
England regrouped quickly. Smalling shouted orders, Cahill pointed to track Giroud, and Dier dropped deeper to block the next wave.
But the French weren't slowing.
They smelled the blood of exhaustion.
Kanté was tireless — a ghost in blue, intercepting passes no one else even saw. His legs seemed to ignore fatigue; his lungs were a machine. Each time England tried to build, there he was, poking, pressing, recovering.
At the 94th minute, he intercepted Rooney near the circle and immediately turned defense into attack. A single pass out wide to Payet and the stadium exploded.
Coman flew down the right like a bolt of lightning, cutting past Rose as if he weren't there. His low cross whipped through the box, a blur of speed and danger.
Smalling lunged. Giroud swung.
The ball bounced — chaos — then smacked off Cahill's shin and spun loose.
Griezmann pounced — shot —
but Hart again, impossibly quick, dropped low and blocked it with his thigh.
The rebound rolled back toward Payet, who tried to curl it — and this time Walker threw his body across, blocking it clean with his hip. The ball spun behind for another corner.
The crowd was on its feet now, a wall of blue and white flags waving in the humid air. Every heartbeat seemed louder than the last.
Payet jogged to the corner flag, sweat pouring down his temples, eyes sharp with focus.
The delivery was whipped in viciously, curving toward the penalty spot —
Koscielny rose —
met it —
and smashed his header toward goal.
Hart didn't even dive this time.
It clipped the top of the bar and sailed over.
England breathed again.
For a few seconds, all you could hear was the roar of lungs, the slap of boots on grass, the faint echo of the referee's whistle calling calm. The game had become pure survival — both sides pushing past the limits of reason.
At the next restart, Dier found Francesco again — this time on the left side, near the touchline.
Francesco controlled, then turned sharply as Koscielny closed in.
He dipped his shoulder, sprinted inside, then unleashed a low, slicing ball through the channel toward Sturridge.
The pass split Koscielny and Umtiti clean in half, rolling perfectly into Sturridge's stride.
"Go on!" Francesco yelled.
Sturridge took it first time — a curling effort toward the far post.
It was beautiful. Precise.
But Hugo Lloris was ready.
The French captain leapt full stretch, his fingertips grazing the ball just enough to send it skimming wide.
"Oh my word!" the commentator's voice cracked above the chaos. "That was inches away! Sturridge denied by the fingertips of Lloris!"
Lloris landed hard, but his expression didn't change — calm, focused, almost emotionless. He'd been here before. Finals were his domain. He stood, pounded his chest once, and barked at his defenders: "Allez, allez! On garde la ligne!"
And so it went — chance for chance, save for save.
It wasn't just football anymore; it was survivalism, human endurance wearing the mask of sport.
Every minute felt stretched. Every tackle echoed.
Pogba clipped a ball to Payet again at the 97th. Payet's cross found Giroud — header!
Hart caught it clean this time, chest-high, holding it firm like it was the last possession in the world.
Then England broke again.
Rooney turned, fired a pass down the line.
Francesco chased — tired legs screaming, lungs aflame — but still he ran.
Koscielny tracked him, shoulder to shoulder. They collided, both crashing to the turf as the ball rolled out for a throw.
The crowd applauded the duel — not for the skill, but for the sheer will behind it.
Both men got up slowly.
Francesco winced, pressing his side where the contact had caught him.
Koscielny gave a small nod of respect — warriors acknowledging each other mid-battle.
The next few minutes saw no real chances — just war in the trenches.
Midfield tackles, stray passes, desperate clearances.
At one point, Matuidi — too tired to chase — simply threw himself into a slide to block Rooney's cross, and when the ball ricocheted into his chest, he stayed down, gasping for air.
Pogba leaned over him, shouting for the physio, but Matuidi waved him off.
"Je continue," he muttered. I go on.
At the 100th minute, England found another rhythm.
Dier won possession deep and immediately sent it long to Kane.
Kane nodded it on, and Francesco, reading it perfectly, darted between Umtiti and Koscielny.
He took one touch — heavy — but recovered it before Lloris could sweep.
He turned his body, drew back his leg — shot —
but Umtiti flung himself across and blocked it with his thigh.
The deflection looped high into the air, and Lloris leapt to grab it, colliding mid-air with Kane.
Both crashed down, the ball spilling loose —
and for a terrifying second, everyone froze.
Then the whistle blew: foul, on Kane.
The French bench erupted in applause.
The English bench groaned in frustration.
Lloris stayed down for a moment, rolling his shoulder, before finally rising again, ball clutched tight in his gloves.
The final five minutes of the first half of extra time were pure attrition.
Deschamps had told his men to manage the tempo — slow the pulse, keep possession — but even that was easier said than done. The English pressing refused to fade.
Rooney and Francesco still chased every pass.
Henderson and Dier still harried Pogba.
Even Kane, legs heavy as lead, dropped deep to block passing lanes.
When Payet tried one last surge before the half, cutting through two defenders, Dier slid in perfectly, sweeping the ball cleanly off his feet.
Coman went down, arms out — no whistle.
England countered immediately.
Dier to Rooney. Rooney to Francesco.
Francesco drove forward, slipped it right to Sturridge —
and Sturridge crossed first time to Kane at the near post.
Kane threw himself at it — the faintest flick —
and Lloris again was there, diving low, pushing it clear with his left hand.
The rebound fell to Rooney at the top of the box.
He wound up —
but Pogba, of all people, had tracked back, sliding in with impeccable timing to block it clean.
The ball spun out for a corner.
The referee looked at his watch — 104:38.
The half was nearly over.
Francesco jogged to the corner flag, hands on his knees for a moment before straightening. His chest heaved; his hair stuck to his forehead; sweat streamed down his face. But his eyes — those eyes were still alive. Still burning.
He raised his hand.
The cross came curling in, wicked and dipping.
Cahill rose highest —
connected —
but the ball smacked against Koscielny's head and bounced clear.
The whistle followed almost immediately.
Half-time in extra time.
France 2 – 2 England.
Players collapsed where they stood.
The noise dulled to a low, exhausted murmur, even from the stands. Fans fanned themselves, some praying, others staring in disbelief. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat, turf, and tension.
Francesco staggered toward the bench, dragging his feet slightly. His calves burned. His throat felt like sandpaper. But inside, he was electric — mind sharp, body screaming, heart alive.
He dropped into his seat, grabbed a bottle, and poured half of it over his head. Steam rose instantly in the floodlight glow.
Hodgson moved in front of them again, voice firm but low. "That's good. That's very good. You're keeping shape, pressing in the right areas. Just need one more moment — one clean chance."
Neville added quickly, "Watch their right — Coman's killing the space. Danny, you've got to stay tighter."
Rose nodded weakly, breathing hard. "Got it."
Then Hodgson turned to Francesco, eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to read what was left in him.
"You still good?" he asked.
Francesco gave a small grin, though his chest still heaved. "Always."
Hodgson nodded. "Then find it. You see where they're vulnerable — between Koscielny and Umtiti. They're not talking anymore. You time that run right, and they're gone."
Francesco just nodded again, quiet, focused.
He could feel it too.
The pattern. The rhythm. The invisible fault line waiting to crack.
He looked up toward the stands, where English fans still sang, voices cracked but proud.
Then across the pitch, where Lloris stood talking with Pogba and Koscielny, their faces grim but resolute.
The pause between halves of extra time felt like standing in the eye of a storm — a fragile, fleeting calm surrounded by chaos. Players gulped air like it was water. Coaches barked instructions over the hiss of crowd noise and the low thrum of drums echoing from the stands. The Stade de France was alive — not just with noise, but with tension so thick you could almost taste it.
Francesco sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the pitch like it might reveal something hidden — a gap, a weakness, a destiny. His chest still rose and fell heavily; his hair was soaked, his skin glistening under the lights. Every muscle in his body screamed, but his mind was sharper than ever.
Then movement caught his eye.
Deschamps was gesturing to the fourth official. Two substitutes were ready at the sideline, both already stripped down, both bouncing on their toes like boxers waiting for the bell.
"Here we go," muttered Gary Neville beside Hodgson, squinting toward the French bench.
"Payet off," Hodgson said quietly, eyes narrowing. "And Giroud… they're changing shape."
Sure enough, the board flashed:
10 – Payet OUT → 20 – Gignac IN
9 – Giroud OUT → 11 – Coman IN
The roar that followed was deafening.
Deschamps had made his play — fresh legs, new energy, a change of weapons. Gignac for physical presence and predatory instinct; Coman to tear down England's tiring flanks with raw speed.
Francesco exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the new arrivals. "They're going all in," he murmured.
Kane heard him and nodded grimly. "Then we match them."
Across the touchline, Coman jogged into position on the left wing, swapping sides to exploit Rose's fatigue. Gignac trotted to the center, slapping Pogba's hand on the way — a silent promise that he'd finish whatever chances came his way.
The whistle blew again.
And the second half of extra time began.
France came alive.
It was as if the substitutions had injected lightning into their veins.
Within seconds of the restart, they seized control — moving the ball fast, crisp, purposeful. Pogba, rejuvenated by the brief rest, dictated the rhythm from deep, spreading the ball with elegant precision.
"Stay tight!" Dier shouted, voice cutting through the noise like steel. "Don't let them breathe!"
But France were breathing now — full lungs, wide passes, endless movement.
In the 107th minute, Pogba slipped a delicious pass through the right channel toward Coman, who burned past Rose in a single stride. The young winger's cross whipped toward the far post, just ahead of Gignac.
Stone cleared it with a desperate header, but the pressure didn't fade. The blue shirts came again, relentless as the tide.
Matuidi recycled possession, sending it back to Pogba. The midfielder shifted it left to Evra, who overlapped into space before delivering another teasing cross.
This time, Gignac got there — just enough to flick it goalward — and Joe Hart, scrambling, managed to parry it out with the edge of his glove.
The rebound fell to Griezmann at the top of the box.
He struck — low, fast, deadly.
But Dier threw himself across, blocking with his knee. The ball deflected off his shin and spun behind for a corner.
The stadium's roar reached fever pitch now — an earthquake of sound and color. French fans were on their feet, singing, waving scarves, shouting for the winner they could taste but not yet touch.
"Hold, lads! Hold!" Hodgson bellowed from the sideline, both hands cupped around his mouth. "Stay compact! Trust the shape!"
He turned sharply toward the bench, barking to Neville and the analysts. "They're overloading the left. Coman and Kante — every time! Tell Kyle he can't push up now. No more!"
Neville sprinted to the technical line, shouting instructions, waving at Walker to tuck in tighter. The defender nodded, breathless, retreating closer to Smalling's shoulder.
The corner came in.
Pogba rose above everyone — his header thundered toward the top corner —
and Hart, somehow, impossibly, reached it.
A full stretch, fingertips brushing the ball just enough to send it rattling off the crossbar.
Gasps everywhere. Half the stadium rose thinking it was in.
But it wasn't.
Hart landed hard, rolled, and immediately sprang back to his feet, barking at his defenders, face red, veins in his neck bulging.
"Wake up! No more free headers!"
The English back line clapped, rallied, reorganized.
Still, the rhythm was terrifying.
France were playing with fire now — one-touch football, flicks, feints, crosses — the kind that belonged to champions. The kind that suffocated weaker sides.
But England weren't weak.
Not tonight.
At the 110th minute, after nearly five minutes of blue dominance, Francesco finally found his chance to breathe.
Lloris had just gathered another cross, rolling it forward to Pogba, who turned with that signature ease. But Rooney pressed hard — a late burst of defiance — forcing Pogba into a heavy touch.
The ball spilled loose, and Henderson pounced, snapping it toward Francesco.
And suddenly, England had daylight.
"Go!" Hodgson screamed. "Counter! Counter!"
Francesco darted forward, head up, scanning. Kane was sprinting down the middle, Sturridge peeling wide right. Pogba was behind him, chasing, but slower now.
He feinted left, cut right, and burst into the open field. The space stretched before him like a dare.
Koscielny and Umtiti were backpedaling, both wary, both screaming at each other — "Watch his run! Watch his run!"
Francesco carried it thirty yards, then slid the ball to Kane, perfectly weighted. Kane took one touch, set himself —
but just as he was about to shoot, Koscielny lunged in, a last-ditch block that sent the ball spinning high into the night.
The chance was gone.
The English fans groaned, clutching their heads.
But Hodgson's reaction wasn't frustration — it was a fist clenched in satisfaction.
"That's it!" he shouted. "That's what I want! One more like that and they'll panic!"
He turned to Neville. "We need another like that. Tell Eric and Jordan — when we break, one stays, one goes. No hesitation."
Neville relayed the message, waving frantically at the midfielders, who nodded through heavy breaths.
The match had entered its cruelest phase — the point where every sprint felt like dragging a mountain, where vision blurred, where decisions had to be made faster than muscles could obey.
But both sides refused to give in.
France resumed control. Coman again on the left, tormenting Walker with his dribbles. Pogba feeding Gignac with low through balls that made hearts stop. Griezmann ghosting behind Dier's blind spot, waiting for the one perfect touch.
At the 113th minute, the breakthrough almost came.
Coman found Pogba, who instantly lofted a curling cross toward Gignac. The striker, towering above Cahill, cushioned the ball with his chest and spun in one motion.
He fired.
Hart was beaten.
The ball struck the inside of the post — clang! — and rolled across the line, inch by inch, before spinning out the other side.
Gasps. Screams. Hands on heads.
Deschamps fell to his knees on the sideline, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Mon Dieu…" he mouthed.
Hodgson, for the first time all night, let out a long breath. "We're living dangerously," he muttered.
But England survived.
Stone pounced on the loose ball, launching it upfield. Kane tried to chase but stumbled, legs giving out for a second before he steadied himself again. Francesco clapped him on the back as they reset.
"Keep going, Harry. Keep going."
And they did.
Minute after minute, France attacked — relentless, hungry, desperate.
But England bent, never broke.
Hart, diving low to deny Pogba's 25-yard drive.
Stone sliding to block Gignac again.
Walker clearing off the line after Griezmann's flick nearly crept past.
It was chaos held together by willpower.
And through it all, Hodgson's voice never stopped.
"Discipline!"
"Stay narrow!"
"Now push — push when you win it!"
He was conducting an orchestra of exhaustion — every shout a command that kept them alive.
In the 117th minute, England found another flash of hope.
Rooney intercepted a lazy pass from Matuidi and turned sharply, immediately launching it forward to Francesco.
The ball skipped across the grass, slightly behind him, but Francesco reached out with a deft heel flick, dragging it forward and away from Pogba. He accelerated, teeth gritted, sprinting toward the box.
Kante backpedaled. Umtiti shifted across.
Francesco cut inside, shot —
and Lloris, stretching every inch of his frame, palmed it wide.
It was another breathtaking save.
The camera caught Hodgson clapping furiously on the sideline, shouting encouragement, his tie loosened, hair damp from the tension.
"Good! That's good, son! That's how we do it!"
Francesco walked back slowly from the box, hands on hips, chest heaving. The crowd gave him a standing ovation — even some of the French fans.
Because everyone knew what they were watching now wasn't just football. It was two teams past the brink, driven by pride, fear, and belief.
The clock ticked into the 118th minute — the air inside the Stade de France thick, alive with every breath of eighty thousand hearts beating in unison. Sweat dripped from brows, jerseys clung like second skins, and the floodlights poured down a cold, merciless glow that made the exhaustion on every face shimmer like oil. The game was on the knife's edge now, trembling between miracle and heartbreak.
Francesco could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, the sound like war drums, steady and relentless. Every inhale tasted of iron. Every exhale burned. France had been unrelenting — their movement fluid, their intent merciless. Yet somehow, England still stood. Bruised, battered, staggering on their last ounces of strength — but still standing.
The ball rolled harmlessly back to Joe Hart after another desperate French cross. Hart took a second longer than usual to pick it up — he wasn't stalling, just catching his breath, steadying his hands. Then, he threw it short to Dier.
Henderson glanced at the clock — 118:23 — and yelled hoarsely, "One last push!"
Dier nodded, feeding the ball square to him. Henderson took it, looked up, and saw something that most players, drained and dizzy with fatigue, might have missed — a glimpse of white streaking near the halfway line. Francesco.
He was peeling away from Koscielny, reading the space before anyone else had. It was instinct now — not thought, not plan. Just the raw, honed instinct of a man born to strike when the world blinked.
Henderson didn't hesitate. He swung his right foot through the ball, sending a long, arcing pass that cut through the humid night like a flare.
The crowd gasped.
The ball sailed high, spinning, carrying, falling — straight toward Francesco, who was already in motion.
He cushioned it with his chest on the run — perfectly. The ball bounced once on the turf, rolling forward into his stride.
Kanté was there first — quick as lightning, as always — sliding in low to nick it away. But Francesco skipped over him, a half step, a dancer's move, his boot brushing the top of Kanté's outstretched leg. The French midfielder hit the turf, stunned.
Matuidi came next — charging in from the side, all muscle and grit — but Francesco swiveled his hips and rolled the ball behind his heel, spinning past him like smoke.
Now it was open field. The roars of the crowd blurred into a single, deafening pulse.
Francesco didn't slow.
Koscielny closed in, desperate, lunging. Francesco dropped a shoulder, glided left, and let Koscielny's tackle cut air. The defender spun past him, momentum carrying him out of the play.
Only Sagna left now.
The right-back came sprinting from the edge of the box, eyes wide, teeth gritted. Francesco veered slightly right — and then stopped dead.
Sagna couldn't. His legs were gone. He stumbled, skidded, and Francesco slipped the ball around him with a flick of his toe.
And suddenly — it was just him and Lloris.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Lloris advanced, arms wide, shouting something — French, sharp, desperate — trying to make himself enormous, to force a mistake.
But Francesco didn't even look at him.
He wasn't afraid.
He wasn't even thinking.
He was feeling.
As Lloris lunged, Francesco shifted his weight slightly — eyes fixed not on the keeper, but on the corner of the goal — and then, without breaking stride, he hit it.
A no-look shot.
Smooth, effortless, audacious.
The kind of strike that only happens when instinct and confidence collide at the edge of madness.
The ball rolled — low, precise, curling subtly away from Lloris' trailing leg.
The French keeper reached — fingertips grazing air.
The crowd held its breath.
And then —
The net rippled.
For a second, there was silence.
The entire stadium froze — time itself seemed to stumble.
Then the realization hit.
It went in.
It went in!
England 3 – 2 France. 119th minute. Francesco Lee.
The explosion of sound was indescribable.
From the English end came a roar that shook the very rafters — an avalanche of joy, disbelief, and release. Flags flew. Beer spilled. Strangers screamed into each other's faces.
"HE'S DONE IT! HE'S DONE IT!" the commentator's voice cracked with hysteria. "FRANCESCO LEE — YOU ABSOLUTE GENIUS!"
On the pitch, Francesco was already sprinting — a blur of white streaking toward the England supporters. His arms spread wide, head tilted back, a grin breaking across his sweat-soaked face.
He reached the barrier, dropped to his knees, and slammed both fists into the turf before rising again, arms outstretched to the roaring sea of fans.
Behind him, the English bench erupted. Hodgson leapt from his seat, both fists pumping the air as if trying to punch the stars themselves. Neville screamed, hugging whoever was closest — Dier, Sturridge, anyone. The substitutes stormed down the touchline, tumbling over each other in wild disbelief.
Rooney, who'd been halfway up the pitch when the ball went in, was the first to reach Francesco. He grabbed him in a bear hug, shouting over the noise, "You insane bastard! You actually did it!"
Francesco laughed — or maybe he just gasped — chest heaving, joy radiating from every fiber of him. Kane arrived next, tackling him into a heap, then Henderson, then Walker, then half the team piling on until it was just a tangle of limbs and screams and laughter.
In the chaos, Francesco managed to lift his head for a second — to look out toward the stands.
The English fans were losing their minds — tears, fists in the air, banners waving. Some were singing, others just screaming. It wasn't just celebration. It was catharsis.
Across the pitch, the French bench stood in stunned silence. Deschamps had both hands on his head, disbelief written in every line of his face. Lloris sat on his knees inside the box, staring at the net as if it had betrayed him. Koscielny lay flat on the turf, arms out, eyes shut.
Pogba kicked at the grass, muttering curses under his breath. Matuidi sank to his haunches, chest heaving, staring blankly at the scoreboard.
119:34 — France 2, England 3.
The stadium announcer's voice was swallowed by the noise, drowned out by the English chants thundering through the night.
🎵 "It's coming home… it's coming home…" 🎵
The melody rose, trembling, broken, beautiful.
Back near the halfway line, Hodgson was shouting, half out of joy, half out of sheer necessity: "Back! Everyone back now! We see it through!"
Dier was already waving arms, calling the shape, dragging players into formation even as they wiped tears from their faces. Cahill thumped Francesco's chest, grinning so wide it looked painful. "You mad genius! How'd you even—"
Francesco just smiled, still catching his breath. "Didn't think. Just felt it."
"Bloody hell," muttered Henderson, shaking his head. "You've just written yourself into history."
The game wasn't over yet — not officially. There were still seconds left. But everyone knew it. You could feel it in the air — the energy had shifted, utterly, irreversibly.
When France kicked off again, they did it with the dazed precision of men who had seen a ghost. They sent it long, desperate, hopeful — but Dier headed it away.
Rose smashed it upfield.
The referee checked his watch.
And then —
Peeeeep.
The whistle.
Full time.
England 3 – 2 France.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then the dam broke.
England's bench flooded the pitch. Coaches, substitutes, staff — everyone sprinted toward the players. Hart collapsed to his knees, pounding the grass, roaring wordlessly into the sky. Rooney hugged Francesco again, lifting him clean off the ground this time.
"Hero," he shouted over the noise. "You bloody hero!"
Francesco just shook his head, laughing through tears. "We all are."
In the stands, the sea of red and white swayed and sang and cried. The night sky above Saint-Denis was alive with noise and light and love.
On the other side, the French players stood hollow-eyed. Pogba offered a hand to Lloris, who took it silently. Deschamps clapped his men one by one, expression unreadable — the face of a man who knew how fine the margins between glory and heartbreak could be.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (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, and 2015/2016 Champions League
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: 5
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9