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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.
The whistle's echo still hung in the humid Parisian night when Wayne Rooney pulled Francesco back into his arms. The captain's face was flushed red — from exhaustion, from joy, from something deeper and older than either of those. For a moment, neither spoke. Around them, teammates shouted, laughed, fell to the grass, or threw their shirts into the air, but inside that tiny circle — Rooney's arm around Francesco's shoulders, both men trembling with adrenaline — the noise faded.
Rooney's chest hitched once. Then again. And then he said it — voice hoarse, raw, shaking at the edges:
"Thank you."
Francesco blinked, caught off guard. He tried to laugh, but there was something in Rooney's tone that stopped him cold. The words weren't casual. They were heavy — the kind that come from somewhere far beneath the surface.
"For what?" Francesco asked softly, still breathing hard, sweat streaking his face.
Rooney swallowed, his eyes bright under the floodlights. "For this," he said, gesturing weakly at the pitch, at the players hugging and crying and screaming around them. "For all of this. You've no idea what this means, lad. Not just to me… to all of us."
He drew in a shaky breath, words spilling now like a dam had cracked inside him. "I've been here a long time, you know that. I've seen it all — the failures, the heartbreaks, the penalties, the headlines. Every bloody tournament, we'd start with hope and end with excuses. And after a while…" He paused, voice catching, "…after a while, you start doubting. Not the shirt, never the shirt — but yourself. The belief. The idea that England can still do it."
Francesco didn't interrupt. He just listened. The older man's words carried the weight of a decade of scars — all those nights when England fell short, when belief turned into burden.
Rooney went on, quieter now. "I remember 2004, 2006, 2010, 2012, 2014… every bloody year we walked off with our heads down, saying next time, next time. But inside… you start to think maybe it'll never come. That maybe this shirt's cursed."
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, eyes glistening under the glare. "And then you came along."
Francesco frowned slightly, confused, but Rooney gripped his shoulder tighter. "You — with your fire, your belief, your hunger. The way you talk to the lads, the way you fight for every inch out there. You don't just play the game — you make them believe again. You made me believe again."
He laughed then, a broken, emotional laugh that was half sob. "You don't know what that's like for an old bastard like me — to feel that hope again. To see the team want it, not for the fame, not for the headlines, but for the badge. For England."
Francesco swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Wayne…"
But Rooney shook his head, still holding onto him, eyes burning now with gratitude and years of pent-up emotion. "No, let me say it. Because you deserve to hear it. We were broken, lad. All of us. I tried to hold it together — to keep the dressing room united, to make the boys believe — but we were losing it. The old guard were tired, the young lads didn't trust the system, and somewhere in between, we lost who we were supposed to be."
He looked around the pitch — at Dier sitting on the turf with his head in his hands, at Henderson hugging Sturridge, at Hart sobbing near the goalpost. "You changed that. From the first day you walked in, something shifted. You didn't talk about history or ghosts or curses. You just played. You led by example. You made everyone remember what it felt like to wear this shirt with pride again."
Rooney's voice softened, but his grip didn't. "And now look. Champions of Europe. England. Champions."
The words hung there for a moment, trembling with disbelief and wonder.
Francesco felt something stir deep in his chest — pride, yes, but also humility. He had scored the winning goal, but hearing Rooney speak like that made it feel like more than just a victory. It was a resurrection.
"I didn't do it alone," Francesco said finally, his voice low. "You were the one who kept this team together. You were the one we looked to when things went bad. You made me believe I belonged here, Wayne. You — not me."
Rooney gave a short, wet laugh, shaking his head. "Nah, lad. Maybe I lit the candle. But you brought the bloody fire."
They stood there for another long moment, just breathing it in — the songs from the stands, the flashes from cameras, the roar of a nation echoing through the Paris night. Around them, teammates began gathering for the post-match salute, linking arms, waving toward the fans.
The chants still trembled through the air when Francesco finally let go of Rooney's embrace. The captain clapped him once more on the back — hard, almost fatherly — before turning toward the rest of the team, calling them in for the group salute to the England end. Francesco stood there for just a second longer, chest heaving, eyes scanning the scene before him — white shirts, red flags, tears, laughter, the whole world spinning in noise and light.
And then, through all that chaos, he saw a familiar face on the other side of the pitch.
Kanté.
The little midfielder was walking slowly toward the center circle, still catching his breath, his shirt damp with effort, his eyes soft and tired. Beside him, Koscielny had his hands on his hips, the look of a soldier who'd given everything and still come up short. Both men wore that same quiet heartbreak that only those who've stood at the edge of glory can know — proud, but hollow.
Francesco didn't hesitate. He started walking. Past the photographers, past the staff with their cameras, past the players still celebrating. He ignored the shouting from the English bench — "Come on, lad, we're going to the fans!" — and kept moving toward the two Frenchmen.
When they finally met near the halfway line, there were no words at first. Just a moment — three players, three Arsenal men, standing amid the wreckage of a final that had given everything and taken everything.
Francesco extended his hand first, but Koscielny shook his head, stepped forward, and pulled him into a hug. A long, heavy one.
"Good match, mon frère," Koscielny murmured into his ear. His voice was calm but low, almost trembling. "You were magnificent tonight."
Francesco shook his head as they parted. "No, Laurent. You were. You always are."
He turned then to Kanté, who smiled that small, quiet smile of his — the kind that never reached arrogance, never reached bitterness, just simple respect. They embraced too, brief but genuine, two warriors on opposite sides of history.
"Good match," Francesco said, patting his back. "You ran the whole bloody pitch as usual."
Kanté chuckled softly. "Not enough tonight," he replied in that gentle, humble tone that seemed to carry more honesty than most men's confessions. "You made the difference."
Francesco looked between them — his club brothers, the men he'd gone to battle with in Arsenal colors week after week — and for a second, all the noise fell away again. "Next season," he said quietly, "we'll win together. I'll lead you both — and the rest — to trophies. We'll bring them home to Arsenal."
Koscielny smiled, a little sadly but with pride behind it. "We'll hold you to that."
Kanté nodded. "You will lead us well, Francesco."
They shared one more handshake — firm, full of mutual understanding — before parting ways. The French duo turned back toward their end, where Deschamps and the rest of the squad stood in a silent huddle, shoulders slumped. Francesco watched them go for a second, then turned back toward the center of the field.
He didn't make it far before two more familiar figures approached — Antoine Griezmann and Paul Pogba. Both still in their France kits, both looking like they'd just come through a storm. Griezmann's hair clung damply to his forehead, his face drawn and pale but still lit by that mischievous glint that never quite went away. Pogba walked beside him, head high despite the defeat, his arm briefly around his teammate's shoulder.
Griezmann was the first to speak. "Eh, Lee," he said with a small grin, though his voice was hoarse. "You always find a way, huh?"
Francesco smiled faintly, reaching out to shake his hand. "You almost found one too. That header of yours — if it was an inch lower…"
Griezmann sighed through a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. Football gods didn't fancy me tonight."
Pogba joined in then, his deep voice warm and grounded. "You played like a lion, man. Respect. Not everyone can handle pressure like that."
Francesco met his gaze — Pogba's eyes were tired but honest, gleaming under the floodlights. "You too, Paul. You were a wall out there. Strong, composed. I hope we face each other again — but next time for our clubs."
Pogba grinned, flashing a white smile despite everything. "Yeah? You and Arsenal against us at United — that'll be a war."
Francesco chuckled, nodding. "It'll be a battle. But I'll be ready."
Griezmann smirked, running a hand through his hair. "And I'll see you in the Champions League then. Maybe Atletico will take revenge for tonight, eh?"
Francesco extended his hand again, firm and friendly. "I'll be waiting, Antoine. But you'll have to get past us first."
They all laughed softly, a moment of shared respect between rivals who'd just torn each other apart for ninety minutes. Around them, the air still buzzed with fragments of anthem and celebration, of shouts and sobs and echoes of a match that would live forever.
Pogba pulled Francesco into a quick hug. "Enjoy it, man. You deserve it. You made it look easy out there."
"It wasn't," Francesco replied quietly. "But it was worth it."
When they stepped apart, Griezmann nodded once, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Go celebrate with your people. This night belongs to you."
Francesco smiled, but as he turned away, something inside him twisted — that strange mixture of pride and empathy, victory and sorrow. He looked back once more and saw Griezmann crouching near the touchline, staring into the grass, while Pogba placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. It hit him then, the cruel poetry of football — one man's triumph was always another's heartbreak.
The noise of the stadium was still pulsing in the air — not quite music, not quite thunder, but something alive, something human — when a hand tapped Francesco gently on the shoulder. He turned, still half in the moment, his eyes flicking toward the touchline where a man in a navy UEFA jacket stood waiting, headset gleaming under the lights.
"Mr. Lee," the staffer said, smiling breathlessly, as if even he couldn't believe what he'd just witnessed. "You're needed for the post-match interview on the sideline. Geoff Shreeves is ready for you."
Francesco nodded, blinking sweat out of his eyes, the world around him still a blur of color and movement — white shirts dancing, blue ones kneeling, flags swaying like waves. He took one last look across the pitch — at Rooney hoisting the trophy toward the England end, at Hodgson clapping like a proud grandfather — then exhaled and began walking toward the interviewer's corner.
The walk itself felt strangely long. The grass was soft under his studs, wet with champagne and tears. Cameras panned and followed him, flashes sparking like distant lightning. Somewhere behind him, a chant broke out — "Francesco Lee! Francesco Lee!" — rising in a raw, ragged rhythm that caught him off-guard. He glanced back once more and saw a sea of England fans singing his name, scarves waving, faces bright with joy. He couldn't help it; he smiled.
By the time he reached the sideline, Geoff Shreeves was already there, microphone in hand, eyes bright under the glare of the broadcast lights. The veteran interviewer looked every bit the professional — jacket pressed, hair slicked back — but even he wore that unmistakable look of disbelief that hung over everyone tonight.
"Francesco," Geoff said as the cameras whirred to life, "congratulations. England are European champions for the first time in history. You scored the winning goal in the final. Can you even put into words what this moment means to you?"
Francesco drew a breath, still catching himself between exhaustion and elation. The floodlights made the sweat on his face glisten like rain. "Honestly, Geoff…" he began, his voice low and rough, "…I can't. I've dreamed about moments like this my whole life, but living it… it's something else. You tell yourself you'll be ready, that you'll know what to say, but when it actually happens — when you hear the whistle and realize you've done it — your mind just goes blank. It's unreal."
He shook his head slowly, still half dazed. "It's not just me, though. It's every lad in that dressing room. We've been through so much together — the pressure, the criticism, the doubts. Everyone wrote us off before the tournament. Said we weren't good enough, said England couldn't win anything. But we never stopped believing. We worked for each other, fought for each other… and now here we are."
Geoff smiled, nodding, his hand adjusting the mic slightly as he followed the flow. "Let's talk about that goal. The one that sealed it. One hundred and nineteen minute — tight angle, right foot, across Lloris. Talk us through what went through your mind in that moment."
Francesco's eyes unfocused for a second, as if replaying the scene on the inside of his eyelids. The sound of the crowd seemed to fade again in his memory — replaced by the rhythm of boots, the pulse of adrenaline.
"Honestly," he said after a pause, "there wasn't much thinking. It was instinct. When the ball came to me, I saw stepping in to close the angle, and I knew if I hesitated even half a second, it'd be gone. So I just trusted it. One touch to shift it past him, and then I hit it. I didn't even look where it went. Just… hit it clean. You know when you strike a ball and it feels right? That was it. I just heard the crowd explode, and that's when I knew."
Geoff laughed softly, the sound almost drowned out by another wave of chants from the England end. "And what a strike it was — one for the highlight reels forever. But Francesco, before you came over here, I had a quick word with your captain, Wayne Rooney. He was very emotional — spoke about what you've brought to this team, how you made him and the rest of the squad believe again. He said, quote, 'You brought the fire back.' How does it feel to hear that from a player like Wayne Rooney?"
For a moment, Francesco didn't answer. His eyes drifted toward the far end of the pitch where Rooney was still surrounded by fans and teamnates. The sight hit him harder than he expected — the man who had carried the nation's hopes for so many years, finally smiling without the shadow of disappointment behind his eyes.
He swallowed once before speaking. "That means everything," he said quietly. "Wayne's not just our captain — he's our heartbeat. The way he leads, the way he plays, the way he fights… he's someone I grew up watching. To stand beside him, to wear the same shirt, and to win something together — that's an honor I can't describe."
He paused, voice softening even more. "What he said earlier… it goes both ways. He made me believe. There were times in this tournament when things got rough — Belgium, Portugal — and you could feel the pressure creeping in. But every time, Wayne was the one rallying the lads, keeping us grounded. I just tried to do my part — to lead by example, to give everything. But hearing that from him… yeah, that's special. Really special."
Geoff nodded, the crowd noise dipping for a moment behind the commentary mic. "It's been quite a journey for this team. Group stages, the knockout rounds — every game seemed to push you further, test you harder. Looking back now, Francesco, what stands out to you about England's run through this tournament?"
Francesco took a moment, running a hand through his damp hair. The emotion behind his eyes was clear — not just joy, but reflection, the kind that only comes when the storm has finally passed.
"What stands out?" he repeated softly. "Belief. That's the word. Belief and unity. We didn't always play perfect football. There were moments where we had to dig deep, moments where we were second best, but what mattered was that no one gave up. You could see it in training, in the dressing room — lads supporting each other, pushing each other. No egos, no divisions. Just one purpose."
He smiled faintly, remembering. "When we beat Belgium, that's when it hit me. That's when I knew we could go all the way. We weren't just surviving matches anymore — we were controlling them. And then Portugal in the semis… we showed real heart. Even tonight, when France pressed and the crowd got loud, we didn't fold. We stayed calm. That's what champions do."
The interviewer glanced toward the camera briefly, nodding with approval, then turned back. "You talk about belief and unity — and it's clear the fans believe now, too. They've been chanting your name for the last five minutes straight." He gestured toward the stands, where thousands of England supporters still sang in full voice, their faces wet with joy and exhaustion. "You've become something of a national hero tonight, Francesco. How does that sit with you?"
Francesco laughed lightly — not out of arrogance, but almost disbelief. "A hero? I don't know about that, Geoff. I'm just a lad who loves football. The real heroes are the ones who keep believing even when things go wrong — the fans, the players who came before us, the ones who built this team's foundation. I'm just proud to have done my part."
He looked up again, eyes scanning the crowd. "But hearing them sing… it's surreal. You never get used to that. You dream about it as a kid, kicking a ball around in your backyard, pretending you're in a final, and then one day — it's real. That's what football does. It makes the impossible feel possible."
Geoff grinned, clearly moved by the sincerity in Francesco's tone. "Final question before I let you go celebrate — and I imagine there's plenty of that waiting. You've won the Golden Boot, you've won the Euro, and you're still only twenty-three. What's next for Francesco Lee?"
Francesco hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment to the grass beneath his boots. Then he looked up again, eyes calm, focused. "What's next? Arsenal," he said simply. "We've got a big season ahead, and I want to bring this same spirit, this same hunger, back to the club. We've got a great team, great players — Koscielny, Kanté, Alexis, Özil. I want to lead us to trophies, just like this. The Premier League, the Champions League… I want to make history there too."
He smiled then, the kind of smile that carried both gratitude and promise. "But for tonight… I just want to enjoy this. For England. For everyone who believed in us."
Geoff extended his hand, grinning. "Francesco Lee — Man of the Match, European champion, and England's new golden boy. Congratulations."
Francesco shook his hand firmly, nodding with a quiet humility. "Thank you, Geoff."
As the camera light dimmed and the sound technician gave a thumbs-up, Francesco stepped back, letting the UEFA staff remove the microphone from his shirt. The noise of the stadium rushed back in — the songs, the chants, the laughter — and suddenly he wasn't a man in an interview anymore. He was part of something larger again — part of history.
The air still vibrated with the echo of victory. Even after the cameras had shifted away from the sideline, Francesco could feel the sound — not just in his ears, but in his ribs, in the marrow of his bones. It wasn't just noise anymore; it was life itself. A pulse. A rhythm. England's heartbeat.
He glanced once toward the pitch again — confetti beginning to swirl from the far end as UEFA officials and stadium crew worked in hurried choreography to prepare the stage at midfield. Metallic panels clanked together under the hands of the workers, forming the base of what would soon become the podium. Lights were repositioned; velvet ropes drawn back. The great silver Euro Championship trophy already stood waiting atop its pedestal — gleaming, proud, its surface reflecting the floodlights and the storm of camera flashes around it.
Francesco stood there for a few seconds, watching. He'd seen ceremonies like this a hundred times on television — Zidane in 2000, Torres in 2012 — but this time, it was different. It wasn't a screen anymore. It was his boots on the grass, his sweat on the shirt, his breath misting in the Paris night. This was his moment.
He barely noticed the UEFA staffer returning until the man's voice cut gently through the haze.
"Mr. Lee, they're calling for you again — you'll be receiving your awards before the team presentation."
Francesco blinked, coming back to the present. "Awards?" he asked, almost distractedly, as though he hadn't heard the word right.
"Yes, sir," the man said, smiling broadly now. "Player of the Tournament. And Top Scorer — thirteen goals. Congratulations."
For a second, Francesco just stood there, the words hanging in the air like slow-falling snow. Player of the Tournament. Thirteen goals. It almost sounded absurd. He wanted to laugh, to say there'd been a mistake. But when he looked around — saw the way the cameras were swiveling toward him, the crowd still chanting his name — he realized it was real. All of it.
"Right," he said softly, exhaling, a half-smile forming. "Let's go, then."
The path to the podium stretched across the pitch like a bridge between worlds. On one side — chaos, joy, the blur of teammates still celebrating with flags and champagne. On the other — the structured solemnity of ceremony, of officialdom and history. As he began walking, applause rippled through the stadium again, spreading like wildfire. Some fans stood and clapped; others sang his name once more, their voices hoarse but relentless.
"Francesco Lee!"
"England's number nine!"
"Golden boy!"
Somewhere high in the commentary booth, Clive Tyldesley's voice floated through the night, half in awe, half in disbelief.
"And there he is — the man of the moment. Francesco Lee, the name on everyone's lips. Thirteen goals in six games — a record that may never be touched again. From the group stages to the final, he's been unstoppable."
Beside him, Jamie Carragher spoke, still shaking his head.
"You just can't say enough about him, Clive. Every time England needed something, he delivered. Big goals, leadership, composure — all at twenty-three. That's beyond remarkable. He's changed the face of English football tonight."
Down on the pitch, Francesco could hear snippets of the crowd commentary blaring faintly from the speakers. The sound almost blurred together with the real cheers — television and reality blending until it was impossible to tell which was which.
As he approached the steps of the podium, the gleam of the trophy caught his eye. The Henri Delaunay Cup — silver and pure, its handles reflecting every flicker of the floodlights. He slowed his steps as he passed it, almost unconsciously. For a second, he just looked at it — not with greed or pride, but quiet awe. That cup carried the weight of decades. Of heartbreak. Of every near-miss that England had endured since 1966. And now it would carry his fingerprints, too.
He climbed the short set of steps, each one feeling heavier than the last. Up close, the floodlights were blinding — washing everything in white, making the world shimmer like a photograph caught mid-flash. A line of UEFA officials waited at the top, their hands clasped, their smiles polished and formal. At the far end stood three figures who stood out even amid the suits and medals.
Prince William — dressed in a dark navy suit, tie slightly loosened but posture still princely, a genuine smile breaking across his face as he spotted Francesco.
Beside him, François Hollande — the French president, eyes kind if a little weary, offering a courteous nod of respect despite his nation's defeat.
And beside them, Michel Platini — his expression a blend of nostalgia and authority, hands resting lightly on the velvet-lined tray that bore two awards: the Player of the Tournament trophy and the Golden Boot.
As Francesco reached the top, applause broke out again — this time more formal, polite, yet charged with emotion. The announcer's voice boomed through the stadium speakers, echoing in English and French:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the UEFA Euro 2016 Player of the Tournament award — and the tournament's top scorer, with thirteen goals — from England: Francesco Lee!"
The crowd erupted again, louder than before. Flags waved, voices thundered, and somewhere in the England section, someone began singing "Three Lions" again, the melody rising and falling like an anthem reborn.
Francesco stepped forward first to shake hands with the UEFA officials — polite smiles, firm grips, murmured congratulations in accented English. Then came Prince William. The royal extended his hand, his grin wide and proud.
"Francesco," he said warmly, his tone more personal than ceremonial, "you've made the entire country proud. What a performance. You've written history tonight."
Francesco bowed his head slightly, humbled. "Thank you, Your Royal Highness. It's… an honor. For all of us."
Prince William squeezed his hand once more before letting go. "Enjoy it. You've earned every bit of it."
Next was President Hollande. The French leader's handshake was firm, his voice low. "Magnifique," he said, smiling faintly. "You played with the heart of a lion. My congratulations, even if it was against my country."
Francesco smiled back, respectful. "Merci, Monsieur le Président. France were incredible — it was an honor to play against them."
Finally, he reached Michel Platini. The former player's eyes gleamed with something like pride — the kind of pride only a fellow footballer could understand.
"Francesco Lee," Platini said, his voice deep and measured, "football lives through players like you. Passion, intelligence, courage — that's what defines champions. On behalf of UEFA, congratulations. You've given Europe a tournament to remember."
He handed over the first award — the Player of the Tournament trophy. It was smaller than the main cup, a sleek silver sculpture of abstract motion, catching the light with every movement. As Francesco took it in both hands, he felt the cool metal against his skin — solid, real, heavy with meaning.
Applause again. Flashbulbs. A thousand lenses capturing the moment.
Platini then lifted the second trophy from the tray — the Golden Boot. Polished gold, reflecting Francesco's face in warped gleam. He passed it to him with a smile.
"Thirteen goals," Platini said quietly, almost with reverence. "That's a record that will stand for many years. You've set the bar very high, young man."
Francesco exhaled slowly, his voice quiet but sure. "Records can be broken. But this feeling — this moment — I'll never forget it."
Platini smiled, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before stepping back.
"Good answer."
The crowd roared again as Francesco lifted both trophies high — one in each hand — toward the England end. The floodlights caught the metal, the flashbulbs exploded, and for a few breathtaking seconds, it felt as if the entire world was frozen in that single image: the young striker, sweat-streaked and smiling, the twin symbols of greatness gleaming above his head, a nation singing his name.
In the commentary booth, Clive Tyldesley's voice cracked slightly with emotion.
"That's the picture, ladies and gentlemen. Francesco Lee — England's hero, Europe's best. The youngest player ever to win both the Golden Boot and Player of the Tournament in a single Euro. What a story. What a player."
Jamie Carragher chimed in, his tone soft but full of respect.
"He's changed everything, Clive. The belief, the hunger, the way this team carries itself — he's at the heart of it all. We talk about golden generations; maybe we've finally found the one that delivers. And he's the face of it."
Down on the pitch, the team began to gather at the base of the podium. Rooney, Sterling, Henderson, Kane — all of them grinning, calling out to Francesco as they waited for the official ceremony to begin. Rooney raised both fists and shouted over the noise:
"Come on, Lee! Bring those things down here — we'll add the big one next to 'em!"
Francesco laughed, stepping down carefully from the stage, the silver and gold still in his hands. As he descended, the lights from the cameras danced across the trophies, reflecting off his face like flashes of starlight. He could hear the English fans still singing, the rhythm steady and strong.
"It's coming home, it's coming home…"
And for once — it truly had.
When he reached the bottom, Rooney clapped an arm around his shoulders. "You know what, mate?" the captain said, grinning through tired eyes. "You've just put your name next to the greats. Henry, Ronaldo, Shearer. But tonight — this is your stage."
Francesco smiled faintly, shaking his head. "Ours, Wayne. All of ours."
Rooney nodded, the grin softening into something almost paternal. "That's why you're special, lad."
Behind them, the announcer's voice echoed once again:
"Ladies and gentlemen — please welcome to the podium, the champions of Europe… England!"
The roar that followed nearly tore the sky open. Red and white smoke flares burst from the stands. The anthem thundered again, and one by one, the players ascended the steps, collecting their medals from the officials. Francesco lingered near the back, letting the others go first. He wanted them to have their moment, too — the defenders who'd blocked, the midfielders who'd run until their lungs burned, the keeper who'd saved everything thrown at 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, 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: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9