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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Surrounded by the people who had believed in them from the very beginning. It wrapped around them like a second celebration, like another chapter in a story that would live on forever.
For a long moment after the doors opened, none of them moved very far.
It wasn't hesitation.
It was just… taking it in.
That sea of red and white.
That wall of noise.
That shared joy that stretched further than the eye could see.
Francesco stood there with the rest of his teammates, the sunlight warm against his face, the chants still echoing through his chest like a second heartbeat.
"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!"
"ARSENAL! ARSENAL!"
He swallowed gently, his throat tightening just a little, and lifted his hand again, waving toward the crowd. The response was instant with hands waving back, scarves lifting higher, phones rising like a field of stars trying to capture the moment.
He stepped forward.
Slowly at first.
Then with more confidence as the staff and security formed a clear path, guiding them through the edge of the crowd where a barrier had been set.
Fans pressed close behind it, reaching out, calling names.
"Francesco!"
"Alexis!"
"Mesut!"
"Per!"
"Captain!"
The voices blurred together, but every one of them carried the same feeling.
Pride.
Gratitude.
Love.
Francesco stopped at the barrier, just for a second, leaning slightly over as a young boy that no more than eight or nine, held out a red shirt with trembling hands.
"Please," the boy said, voice shaking with excitement.
Francesco took the shirt gently, smiling down at him.
"What's your name?"
"Daniel," the boy replied instantly.
Francesco nodded. "Alright, Daniel."
He signed it carefully, steady hand, then handed it back.
The boy's face lit up like a sunrise.
"Thank you!" he shouted.
Francesco tapped his shoulder lightly. "Thank you."
To his left, Bellerín was already signing two scarves at once, laughing as a group of teenagers shouted his name over and over. Xhaka had a marker in one hand and was shaking hands with a fan using the other. Giroud leaned down to take a quick photo with a family, crouching so he fit in the frame.
Kanté stood slightly back from the barrier, still smiling that gentle, shy smile as he signed one shirt after another, bowing his head slightly each time someone thanked him.
Cazorla moved through the line like he always did that warm, easy, a hand on a shoulder here, a quiet word there, making each person feel like they mattered.
And at the center of it all, a few steps back, Per Mertesacker stood tall with the trophy still in his hands.
The moment he lifted it just slightly again which just a small raise, just enough to let the sunlight catch the silver as the roar surged again like thunder rolling across the sky.
Francesco glanced back at him for a second.
Captain.
Leader.
The man who had carried them through so many battles.
He gave him a small nod.
Per returned it.
No words needed.
Francesco turned back to the fans.
More shirts.
More scarves.
More quick signatures.
More hands reached out to him from young, old, some steady, some shaking and he met as many as he could, his marker moving in small, practiced strokes across fabric and paper.
"Thank you for everything."
"You made us proud."
"We love you, Francesco!"
He heard it all.
He felt it all.
And each time, he gave something back with a smile, a nod, a touch of the hand, a quick "thank you" spoken from the heart.
Because this…
This was what it was for.
Not just the medals.
Not just the headlines.
But this connection.
This shared moment that belonged to all of them.
Eventually, though, the staff began to gently guide them forward again.
"Alright, boys, we need to keep moving."
There were still flights arriving. Still security protocols to follow. Still a schedule waiting for them beyond the airport gates.
The fans understood.
They didn't push.
They didn't complain.
They just kept cheering as the players slowly began to move along the secured path, waving, clapping, raising their arms in acknowledgment.
Francesco took one last look over his shoulder at the section he had just left.
The boy Daniel was still there, holding the signed shirt up like it was the most valuable thing in the world.
Francesco smiled.
Then he turned and continued forward.
The team bus waited just beyond the security line, polished and ready, its windows already tinted but unable to hide the movement inside as staff prepared the seats.
The Arsenal crest shone proudly along its side.
As they approached, the roar of the crowd shifted again that no longer just a celebration, but a send-off.
A procession.
A victory parade in miniature.
Security formed a tighter ring around them as they crossed the final stretch toward the bus doors, but even then, the players kept their connection with the fans witb hands raised, thumbs up, claps in rhythm with the chants.
"WE LOVE YOU ARSENAL, WE DO!"
"WE LOVE YOU ARSENAL, WE DO!"
The chant rolled in waves, and a few of the players joined in, clapping along, laughing as they walked.
Francesco felt something swell inside his chest again, something almost too big to contain.
He had imagined moments like this as a child.
Standing in his room, wearing a shirt two sizes too big, pretending to lift imaginary trophies.
But this…
This was real.
This was louder.
Brighter.
Warmer.
He stepped up onto the bus stairs, pausing just at the top to turn back one last time.
He raised both hands high.
And the crowd answered him with everything they had.
A final explosion of sound.
A final shared moment.
Then he stepped inside.
The interior of the bus felt cooler, calmer, a soft contrast to the storm of celebration outside.
Players were already settling into their seats again, bags tucked away, some still laughing, some leaning back with satisfied exhaustion.
Mertesacker carefully carried the trophy to the front, placing it in its now familiar position where it could be seen by everyone.
It gleamed there.
A constant reminder.
Francesco slid into his seat by the window again, his heart still racing just a little from everything outside.
Beside him, Xhaka dropped down with a small exhale.
"Never gets old," he said, shaking his head slightly.
Francesco smiled. "I hope we get to test that."
Xhaka smirked. "We will."
Across the aisle, Bellerín was already scrolling through videos fans had posted from outside, turning his phone to show Cazorla.
"Look at this," he said. "You can hear them from down the road."
Cazorla leaned in, eyes lighting up as he watched. "Incredible."
Giroud leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, but even then, there was a soft smile resting on his face.
Kanté sat with his hands folded again, glancing occasionally at the trophy, then out the window at the still-cheering crowd outside.
And Per…
Per remained near the front for a moment longer, looking out at the fans through the windshield.
He lifted one hand in a final wave.
Then he turned and took his seat.
The doors of the bus closed with a soft, solid thud.
The engine started.
A low rumble building beneath them.
Outside, the crowd began to part slightly as security created a path forward.
Still chanting.
Still waving.
Still singing.
The bus eased into motion.
Slow at first.
Careful.
Rolling forward through the sea of supporters.
Francesco pressed his hand lightly against the window, looking out as the fans walked alongside the bus for as long as they could, some jogging, some just standing and watching it pass.
He saw scarves held up high.
Flags waving in the morning light.
Faces flushed with joy.
Some of them were crying.
Some of them were laughing.
All of them were part of this.
As the bus moved further away from the terminal, the density of the crowd began to thin, but the noise didn't fade quickly.
It followed them.
Echoed behind them.
Carried in the air.
Inside the bus, the players gradually settled into a quieter rhythm again.
The adrenaline of the welcome slowly giving way to a deeper, calmer satisfaction.
A few conversations started up again that soft, easy, familiar.
"Parade going to be madness," Bellerín said.
Xhaka nodded. "This was just the airport."
"Imagine the Emirates," Giroud added, opening one eye.
Cazorla chuckled softly. "Better rest now then."
Francesco leaned his head back against the seat, his eyes drifting once more to the window.
London rolled by outside now.
Streets.
Buildings.
Familiar landmarks.
Home.
He thought of Leah.
Of his parents, Mike and Sarah, already there waiting somewhere in the city, probably watching the news, probably replaying the scenes from the airport.
He thought of the fans.
Of Daniel holding that signed shirt.
Of the thousands who had waited just to see them for a moment.
And he thought of what came next.
The parade.
The celebrations.
The next season.
The next challenge.
The next dream.
He let out a slow breath, a content smile resting on his lips.
Beside him, Xhaka nudged his shoulder lightly.
"You good, captain?"
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'm good."
Outside, the last clusters of fans along the road waved as the bus passed them, their voices still rising in that familiar chant.
"ARSENAL! ARSENAL! ARSENAL!"
And as the team bus carried them away from the airport, through the streets of London, and back toward the place they called home.
The journey through London seemed to flow by in waves of red and white.
Even as the bus moved further from the airport, the echoes of the supporters never truly left them. Every few streets, another pocket of fans appeared from outside cafés, along sidewalks, leaning from the windows of cars stopped at traffic lights with hands raised, scarves lifted, voices still carrying that same chant that had followed them since they stepped out of the terminal.
"ARSENAL! ARSENAL! ARSENAL!"
Inside the bus, the players were quieter now.
Not silent.
But calmer.
The initial rush of the airport welcome had softened into something steadier, something deeper. There were still smiles, still bits of laughter drifting between rows of seats, still phones being passed around with videos of the crowd, but beneath it all was that growing sense of… completion.
They had done it.
And now they were bringing it home.
Francesco sat by the window, his head resting lightly back against the seat as he watched the city glide past outside. The familiar streets. The turns he had come to know so well. The rhythm of London life moving around them, now with this extra layer of celebration woven into it.
He caught sight of a group of schoolkids pressed against a fence, jumping up and down as the bus rolled by.
He saw a couple walking their dog pause just to clap as they recognized the crest on the side of the bus.
He saw a construction worker up on scaffolding lift both arms high and shout something that couldn't quite be heard through the glass, but the meaning was clear.
Pride.
Support.
Love.
Beside him, Granit Xhaka had settled deeper into his seat, one arm resting across his chest again, but his eyes were open now, watching the same passing scenes.
"Feels different driving back like this," Xhaka said quietly.
Francesco nodded, his gaze still out the window. "Yeah," he replied. "It does."
They didn't need to say more.
A few rows ahead, Héctor Bellerín was still replaying clips on his phone, occasionally turning it around to show Santi Cazorla, both of them reacting with small bursts of laughter or disbelief at the sheer scale of the crowd.
Olivier Giroud sat with his head leaned back again, eyes closed, but every now and then his lips curved into that soft, satisfied smile.
N'Golo Kanté sat upright, hands resting neatly together, his eyes moving between the passing streets and the gleaming trophy positioned near the front, almost as if he still needed to remind himself it was real.
And at the front of the bus, Per Mertesacker sat tall, captain's presence calm and steady, occasionally glancing out through the windshield at the road ahead.
They were nearly there now.
The turns became more familiar.
The roads quieter.
The traffic thinner.
And then finally, the bus slowed.
A familiar gate.
The sign.
London Colney.
The training ground.
Home.
The bus rolled forward through the entrance, the security gates opening smoothly to welcome them inside. The grounds were already alive with movement.
Word had spread quickly.
Staff members had gathered outside the main building, lining the walkway, some still in their work uniforms, some holding small Arsenal flags, others simply standing with hands clasped together in anticipation.
The moment the bus came to a gentle stop and the engine softened to a low idle, there was a pause inside.
Just a second.
A shared look between players.
A shared breath.
Then someone near the back said quietly, "Let's go."
The doors opened.
One by one, the players began to step down from the bus.
The moment the first boot hit the pavement, the cheering started.
Warm.
Loud.
Full of pride.
"WELCOME HOME!"
"CHAMPIONS!"
"WELL DONE, BOYS!"
Francesco stepped down a few seconds later, the fresh air greeting him again, but this time it carried a different kind of warmth with the kind that came from people who worked behind the scenes every single day.
The kit staff.
The groundskeepers.
The medical team.
The office staff.
The people who kept everything running.
All of them there.
All of them smiling.
All of them clapping.
Francesco felt that same wave rise in his chest again as he walked forward, raising his hand in greeting, offering small nods, quiet words of thanks to those closest to him.
"Congratulations, Francesco!"
"Brilliant performance!"
"You've made us proud!"
"Thank you," he replied again and again, each time meaning it just as much.
Behind him, more players stepped down from the bus, the line slowly forming as they gathered together on the pavement, greeting familiar faces, exchanging handshakes, small embraces, pats on the shoulder.
Then Per Mertesacker stepped down.
And in his hands.
The trophy.
The moment it came into view, the reaction shifted instantly.
The cheers grew louder.
Sharper.
A surge of sound rising from the staff as the silver of the Champions League trophy caught the daylight and reflected it back across the courtyard.
"There it is!"
"Look at that!"
"We did it!"
Some of the staff even began clapping in rhythm, a few chanting softly, their voices lifting with pride.
Per held it steady, a small, proud smile on his face as he looked around at the people who had supported them every step of the way.
He gave a small nod.
A captain's acknowledgment.
A silent "this is yours too."
Francesco watched him for a moment, that familiar respect settling deep in his chest again.
Leader.
Guardian of that moment.
Then, stepping forward from the group of executives who had been waiting near the entrance, came Ivan Gazidis.
He approached with a broad, satisfied smile, his eyes immediately drawn to the trophy in Per's hands.
"Well," he said warmly, his voice carrying clearly across the gathered group, "that is a beautiful sight."
A small ripple of laughter moved through those closest.
Ivan stepped closer, offering Per a respectful nod.
"Thank you, Per," he said sincerely. "All of you. What you've achieved… it means everything to this club."
Per inclined his head slightly. "We did it together," he replied.
Ivan smiled at that, then turned slightly to one of the nearby staff members.
"Would you mind," he said, gesturing gently toward the trophy, "taking this and ensuring it's placed safely in the cabinet for now?"
The staff member which a middle-aged man from the club's operations team that stepped forward with careful, almost reverent hands.
"Of course, sir."
Per handed the trophy over slowly, making sure the grip was secure before releasing it.
For a second, as the staff member turned and carried it toward the main building, the entire group seemed to watch it go.
That gleaming silver symbol.
Of nights like Cardiff.
Of everything they had fought for.
Of everything they had achieved.
Then, as the staff member disappeared through the doors to place it safely in the club's trophy cabinet, Ivan turned back toward the group.
His eyes found Arsène Wenger.
The manager stood slightly to the side, composed as always, hands lightly clasped, that quiet, thoughtful smile resting on his face.
Ivan stepped over to him, lowering his voice slightly, though still close enough for a few of the nearby players, including Francesco to catch parts of the conversation.
"Well, Arsène," Ivan said, a note of excitement threading through his tone, "I think we have something rather special to plan."
Wenger's eyes softened with quiet amusement. "I imagine we do."
Ivan gave a small, satisfied nod. "The parade. It has to be bigger than last season. This time… we're defending the treble."
Wenger let out a small breath, almost a soft laugh, the weight of that sentence settling between them.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, we are."
There was a brief pause.
Then Wenger added, his tone calm but firm, "We will give the supporters a celebration worthy of what this team has achieved."
Ivan smiled. "Exactly."
Behind them, the players continued to mingle with the staff, the atmosphere still alive with congratulations and laughter, but there was also a subtle shift now like turning of the page.
From the journey.
To what came next.
Francesco stood there for a moment longer, watching as the last of the luggage was unloaded from the bus, as teammates drifted toward the building, as staff continued to offer their thanks and pride.
He took a slow breath.
Letting it all settle.
Then Xhaka stepped up beside him again, nudging his shoulder lightly.
"Back to work soon," he said with a half-smile.
Francesco glanced at him, then toward the building, then in the direction the trophy had been carried.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "But first… we celebrate with everyone."
Xhaka grinned. "I like that plan."
Together, Francesco and Granit turned toward the main building at Colney, following the steady flow of teammates and staff through the glass doors and into the familiar warmth inside.
The shift from outside to inside was immediate.
The noise softened.
The air changed.
The celebration didn't stop, but it became something more contained, more intimate. Laughter echoed a little more clearly through the hallways, footsteps tapped against polished floors, and the low hum of voices blended into a constant background of shared joy.
"Drinks in the lounge!" someone called out from further ahead.
"Of course there are," Bellerín replied with a grin, raising his hands as if in victory. "Finally, something I can win at."
"Careful," Giroud murmured as he passed him, one eyebrow raised. "You lose at table tennis every week."
"Lies," Bellerín shot back, though he was already laughing.
Francesco followed them down the corridor, past the familiar walls lined with framed photographs with thr moments from seasons past, goals, trophies, legends who had worn the shirt before them.
Today, he felt like they were part of that wall already.
Part of that history.
He reached the players' lounge and pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was alive.
Music played softly in the background that nothing loud, just enough to fill the space with a relaxed rhythm. A few staff members had already set up drinks and light food along one side. The large television mounted on the wall at the far end was on, volume turned up just enough to be heard clearly over the chatter.
And on that screen.
It was them.
Footage from the airport.
From the bus.
From the moment Per lifted the trophy again under the morning sun.
"Look at that!" Cazorla said, already leaning against the back of one of the sofas, pointing toward the screen with a wide smile. "They caught the exact moment!"
Bellerín dropped onto the couch beside him, grabbing a cushion and tossing it lightly into his lap as he watched. "We look good," he said, nodding approvingly. "Very good."
Xhaka walked past them with a small shake of his head, though the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "You're admiring yourself on television again, eh?"
"Of course," Bellerín replied without missing a beat. "If I don't, who will?"
Giroud chuckled softly as he settled into an armchair, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Trust me, Héctor," he said dryly, "plenty of people already do."
That earned a louder laugh from the group.
Kanté took a seat near the edge of one of the couches, hands resting neatly on his knees again, his eyes focused on the screen with that same quiet, almost disbelieving look he had worn since the final whistle days earlier.
On the television, a presenter stood outside the airport, microphone in hand, the banner at the bottom of the screen reading in bold:
"EUROPEAN CHAMPIONS RETURN HOME"
Images played behind her from fans singing, players waving, the bus moving through a sea of red.
"They're going to replay this for the next three weeks," Xhaka muttered as he finally took a seat beside Francesco.
"Good," Francesco said quietly, his eyes still on the screen. "They should."
Xhaka glanced at him for a second, then nodded. "Yeah," he said. "They should."
Francesco leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together as he watched.
There was a moment on screen that just a brief one, where the camera zoomed in on him at the barrier, signing Daniel's shirt.
He recognized the boy instantly.
The way his hands had been shaking.
The way his face had lit up.
Francesco felt a small, warm weight settle in his chest again.
"Your fan club is growing," Xhaka said, nudging him lightly with his elbow as he saw the same clip.
Francesco smiled softly. "They're all our fans," he replied.
"True," Xhaka admitted. "But some of them shout your name a little louder."
Before Francesco could respond, the door to the lounge opened again.
And the mood shifted.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't loud.
But it was noticeable.
Because the man who stepped inside carried with him a presence that always commanded attention.
Arsène Wenger.
He stepped into the room slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
And though his posture was still upright, still composed as ever, there was something different in his expression.
Serious.
Thoughtful.
Measured.
The laughter in the room didn't stop instantly, but it softened, voices lowering as players began to notice him standing there.
Per Mertesacker was the first to straighten in his seat.
Then Xhaka.
Then Bellerín, who lowered the cushion from his lap.
One by one, the players' attention shifted toward their manager.
Wenger took a few steps further into the room, his hands loosely clasped in front of him.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice calm, steady, carrying easily across the space.
There was a quiet now.
Not tense.
But attentive.
Wenger let his gaze move across the room, meeting the eyes of each player in turn.
"I will not take much of your time," he continued. "Today is a day for you to enjoy what you have achieved. To be with each other. To be proud."
A few players nodded subtly.
Francesco sat a little straighter, his eyes fixed on Wenger now.
Wenger drew in a small breath, then spoke again.
"But there is something important I must share with you. Something that will concern the future of this club."
A slight ripple moved through the room.
Not panic.
But awareness.
Focus sharpening.
Wenger's tone remained even.
"Starting from next season," he said, "Stan Kroenke will become the owner of Arsenal F.C.."
There was a brief stillness.
The kind where everyone hears the words, but needs a second to fully absorb them.
Wenger continued, clarifying gently.
"He has purchased thirty percent of Alisher Usmanov's shares. The value of the agreement is eight hundred and fifty million pounds."
A few eyebrows lifted around the room.
Giroud sat up a little straighter.
Bellerín blinked once, then leaned back slightly, absorbing the information.
Xhaka's arms crossed over his chest again, his expression thoughtful rather than alarmed.
Francesco felt the information settle slowly in his own mind.
A new ownership structure.
A shift at the top.
Change.
Wenger raised one hand slightly, not to stop them from reacting, but to guide the moment.
"I understand," he said calmly, "that news like this can bring uncertainty. Questions."
He paused briefly, making sure he had their attention fully.
"But I want to be very clear with you."
His voice remained steady. Assured.
"I have spoken with Ivan. And Ivan has spoken directly with Mr. Kroenke."
Wenger's eyes moved again across the room, making sure each player heard him.
"He has assured us that there will be no changes to the structure of the team. No disruption to what we are building."
A slight easing of tension moved through the room.
Subtle, but present.
Wenger continued.
"He also intends to renew all of your contracts at the beginning of the new season, where applicable, to ensure stability and continuity."
That drew a few more visible reactions.
A quiet nod from Xhaka.
A thoughtful glance exchanged between Cazorla and Bellerín.
Giroud leaned back again, this time with a slightly more relaxed posture.
Francesco felt a small breath leave his chest, tension he hadn't even fully realized was there easing away.
Wenger clasped his hands together once more.
"For now," he added, his tone lowering slightly, "this information is not yet public. The official announcement will be made by the club after the parade."
He looked around the room.
"So I ask you to keep this within these walls. Let the supporters enjoy the moment we have given them without distraction."
A few voices responded quietly around the room.
"Of course."
"Understood."
"No problem, boss."
Wenger gave a small, appreciative nod.
"Thank you."
He paused once more, then allowed the seriousness in his expression to soften just slightly.
"Now," he said, a faint smile touching his lips, "I do not wish for this to overshadow what you have achieved. You have made history. You have given this club one of the greatest seasons it has ever known."
His gaze settled, briefly, on Francesco.
"Enjoy it," he said gently.
Then his eyes returned to the group as a whole.
"Celebrate together. You have earned it."
For a moment, the room remained quiet.
Then Per Mertesacker stood up from his seat.
"Thank you, boss," he said, his voice steady. "For everything."
Wenger inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, Per."
Xhaka spoke next, his tone thoughtful but calm. "As long as nothing changes on the pitch," he said, "we keep doing what we're doing."
Wenger gave a small, approving nod. "Exactly."
Bellerín raised one hand slightly, a half-grin returning to his face. "So… we still get the parade, right?"
That earned a few chuckles.
Wenger allowed himself a small smile. "Yes, Héctor. The parade is very much still happening."
"Good," Bellerín said, leaning back into the couch again. "That's all I needed to hear."
The room began to loosen again.
The tension that had briefly settled now dissolving into something more balanced with awareness of the future, yes, but grounded by the reassurance Wenger had given them.
Francesco leaned back into his seat slowly, his mind turning over what he had just heard.
A new owner.
New chapter.
But the same team.
The same mission.
Beside him, Xhaka exhaled quietly.
"Well," he muttered, "football never stands still, does it?"
Francesco shook his head slightly, a small smile forming again.
"No," he said. "But we don't stop either."
Xhaka glanced at him, then nodded once. "Exactly."
At the front of the room, Wenger gave one final look around at his players, his team.
Satisfied.
Proud.
Then he turned toward the door.
"Enjoy the afternoon, gentlemen," he said.
And with that, he stepped out of the lounge, the door closing softly behind him once more.
For a second, there was silence again.
Then Bellerín reached for the remote and turned the volume on the television up slightly.
"Alright," he said, looking around at the room with a grin, "where were we?"
The screen showed the fans again.
The chants.
The flags.
The celebrations.
Giroud let out a small, content sigh, settling deeper into his chair.
"Champions of Europe," he murmured.
Cazorla lifted his glass slightly. "To us," he said warmly.
Xhaka picked up his own drink and raised it just a little.
Kanté followed, smiling shyly.
Per nodded once, lifting his as well.
Francesco reached for his, lifting it slowly, his eyes still on the screen where thousands of supporters were still singing their names.
"To us," he echoed softly.
And as the room filled once more with quiet laughter, clinking glasses, and the glow of the television replaying their greatest moments, the team of Arsenal F.C. sat together in their lounge at Colney.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
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