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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
Arsène Wenger wasn't just a manager. He was part of the club's soul, and everyone in that stadium knew it.
The roar didn't fade quickly after that moment.
It couldn't.
It wasn't just noise anymore as it was emotion that had been building for years, for decades, for an entire era that had shaped what this club was.
Francesco stood there for a few seconds longer, watching Arsène Wenger take it all in. The way he stood that calm, dignified, almost slightly overwhelmed said more than any speech ever could.
Behind him, Leah shifted Cheddar slightly higher in her arms, resting the little dog's chin on her shoulder. Cheddar blinked lazily, ears flicking at the constant roar of the crowd, but otherwise content just being held, surrounded by warmth, voices, and something that even a small animal could sense was important.
Francesco let out a slow breath.
This was history.
Not the kind written in record books alone.
The kind written in people.
In memories.
In the way seventy thousand voices could say thank you at the same time.
Eventually, the host stepped forward again.
He didn't rush in.
He waited until the noise softened that not silent, never silent but softened enough that his voice could carry across the stadium.
He lifted the microphone.
And when he spoke, his voice carried a sense of pride that matched everyone else's.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
A ripple of response moved through the stands.
"…what you have witnessed today… what you have celebrated today…"
He gestured around him to the players, to Wenger, to the trophies, to the sea of supporters filling every inch of the stadium.
"…is something that will be remembered for generations."
The crowd cheered again.
"But every journey," the host continued, his voice softening slightly, "has a story."
He turned toward the giant screens mounted above the stands.
"And today… we want to relive that story with all of you."
The crowd reacted immediately with anticipation sparking through the stands.
The host smiled.
"So now… we ask all of you from players, your families, your partners, the coaching staff…"
He turned and gestured toward the pitch, inviting them all to turn.
"…and every supporter in this stadium…"
He pointed upward.
"…please turn your eyes to the screen."
The stadium lights dimmed slightly that not enough to darken the afternoon, but enough to make the massive screens glow brighter.
Francesco turned slowly.
Leah stepped closer beside him, one arm still holding Cheddar, the other slipping around Francesco's waist. He felt her lean into him, felt the warmth of her shoulder against his side.
Around them, teammates gathered with their families.
Kanté standing quietly with a shy smile as a small group of relatives gathered near him.
Bellerín with his arm draped around his partner, both of them laughing softly as they looked up.
Robertson with a wide grin, already bouncing slightly on his heels in anticipation.
Per standing tall, one arm resting across the shoulder of a teammate, his eyes already fixed on the screen, still emotional but now calm.
Wenger stepped slightly to the side, hands folded loosely in front of him, his gaze lifting upward as well.
And then…
The screen flickered.
A deep, cinematic drumbeat rolled through the stadium speakers.
The Arsenal crest appeared, glowing in red and gold.
Then the title slowly faded into view:
THE JOURNEY TO DEFEND THE TREBLE
The crowd cheered immediately.
Francesco felt a small chill run along his arms.
He didn't realize how much he wanted to see this… until now.
The music swelled.
The first images appeared.
Pre-season.
Training grounds under the summer sun.
Players running.
Laughing.
Working.
Wenger standing on the touchline, arms folded, watching.
The voiceover began that calm, powerful, unmistakably Arsenal.
"After conquering England… and Europe… they returned with one question…"
A beat.
"Could they do it again?"
The screen cut to the opening match of the season.
The roar of the Emirates.
Francesco scoring the first goal of the new campaign with his shot rifling into the top corner.
The crowd inside the stadium now erupted again, reliving it.
"FRANCESCO!"
Chants echoed around them.
Francesco laughed softly under his breath, shaking his head slightly as Leah squeezed his side proudly.
The video moved quickly, montage after montage.
Goals.
Celebrations.
Training sessions in the rain.
Late winners.
Defensive blocks.
Van Dijk rising above everyone to head in a crucial goal.
Kanté sliding in to win the ball back, again and again.
Özil threading passes that seemed impossible.
Sánchez celebrating with that fierce, driven look in his eyes.
Giroud scoring a bicycle kick that made the entire stadium gasp again even now.
Robertson sprinting down the wing, arms pumping, delivering crosses that led to goals.
Walker chasing down attackers at impossible speeds.
Čech making a fingertip save that preserved a clean sheet in a crucial match.
Then.
The Premier League run.
The wins and draws stacked up.
One after another.
The table showing Arsenal climbing… staying… refusing to fall.
The voiceover returned.
"They said it could not be done twice…"
A pause.
"They were wrong."
The screen showed the final Premier League match.
The final whistle.
Players collapsing to the ground in joy.
Francesco dropping to his knees, fists clenched, shouting in triumph.
The overlay text appeared:
UNBEATEN. AGAIN.
The stadium exploded.
Fans screamed.
Scarves swung.
People jumped up and down.
"INVINCIBLE! INVINCIBLE! INVINCIBLE!"
Francesco closed his eyes for a second, remembering that exact moment with the exhaustion, the disbelief, the overwhelming joy.
Leah pressed her head lightly against his shoulder, whispering softly, "You did it again."
He smiled.
On the screen, the journey continued.
The FA Cup.
Wembley.
The arch glowing red in the night.
Chelsea standing across from them.
The tension.
The battle.
Tackles flying in.
Midfield duels.
A hard-fought match.
Then the decisive moment.
A cross into the box.
A header.
The ball hitting the net.
Arsenal celebrating.
The scoreboard flashing:
ARSENAL 3 – 2 CHELSEA
The final whistle.
Confetti falling.
The team lifting the FA Cup again.
Back in the stadium, the crowd sang loudly:
"WEMBLEY! WEMBLEY!"
Then.
Europe.
The Champions League run.
The nights under the lights.
The away leg battles.
The dramatic comebacks.
The roar of the Emirates on European nights.
The voiceover deepened.
"They conquered England again…"
A beat.
"But Europe… demanded more."
The screen cut to the final.
The Principality Stadium.
Arsenal vs Juventus.
The tunnel.
The players walking out.
Francesco's face focused, determined.
Wenger watching from the sideline.
The match highlights rolled that intense, dramatic.
Juventus attacking.
Arsenal defending.
Then Arsenal striking back.
Goals.
Saves.
Moments of brilliance.
Moments of tension.
The scoreline shifting.
Until finally.
The last whistle.
Arsenal victorious.
Champions of Europe… again.
The players running.
Sliding.
Jumping.
Hugging.
Per lifting the Champions League trophy high above his head.
The crowd in the real stadium roared so loudly it almost drowned out the audio of the video itself.
Leah clapped, laughing, her eyes shining.
Cheddar barked once at the sudden surge of noise, making a few players nearby chuckle.
The screen shifted to slow-motion shots.
Close-ups of players smiling.
Fans crying in the stands.
Wenger watching his team celebrate, pride written across his face.
The voiceover returned one last time.
"History remembers winners."
A pause.
"But legends…"
Another pause.
"…write history."
The screen faded to black.
Then one final image appeared.
The team.
All together.
Standing side by side.
Three trophies in front of them.
Above them, the words:
THE TREBLE. DEFENDED. FOREVER.
Silence.
For just one second.
Then the stadium erupted again.
Louder than ever.
Longer than ever.
Francesco stood there, breathing it in.
Feeling Leah's arm around him.
Hearing the voices of seventy thousand people rising into the sky.
Watching his teammates or his brothers that smiling, laughing, some with tears in their eyes.
And he knew, deep in his chest.
This wasn't just a season.
This wasn't just a victory.
This was something that would live forever.
In the club.
In the fans.
In them.
And in him.
The roar rolled on long after the final image faded from the screen.
It wasn't the kind of applause that rose and fell quickly.
It stayed.
It lingered in the air like something that didn't want to leave, like a shared memory refusing to fade back into the ordinary.
Francesco stood still for a few seconds, eyes still on the giant screen even after it had gone dark again.
He could feel Leah's arm around him, the steady warmth of her presence anchoring him in the moment. Cheddar shifted slightly in her arms, letting out a soft little huff as if even he was overwhelmed by the constant surge of sound and light and emotion.
Around them, the pitch was alive.
Players were hugging each other again.
Some laughed loudly, replaying moments from the video they had just watched.
Others stood quieter, eyes shining, letting it all sink in.
Per wiped his face once more, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked toward the supporters again.
Kanté smiled that same shy smile, clapping lightly toward the stands.
Robertson was already shouting something joyful toward a group of fans who were chanting his name.
Wenger stood with his hands loosely clasped, watching everything unfold, the faintest, proudest smile resting on his face.
And then, slowly, the host's voice returned again.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
The microphone carried his voice across the stadium once more, cutting gently through the noise without ever silencing it.
"…what a journey it has been."
The crowd responded with a cheer.
"What you have just seen…" he continued, gesturing toward the now-dark screen, "is a season that will be spoken about for generations. A season that has given this club… this city… and all of you… memories that will live forever."
The applause swelled again.
"But before we bring this unforgettable day to a close," the host added, his tone lifting slightly with a spark of fun now, "we have one more tradition… one more gift… to share with all of you."
A ripple of excitement moved through the stands instantly.
Francesco felt Leah shift beside him, curious.
The host grinned.
"I think it is time," he said, "for the players… to give something back directly."
The crowd roared.
He turned toward the squad, raising his arm.
"Gentlemen… if you would…"
From the side of the stage, several staff members appeared, carrying large mesh bags filled with footballs.
Each one pristine.
Each one marked.
Each one already signed.
The players' signatures wrapped across the panels in bold ink with names that would be remembered forever.
The moment the balls came into view, the crowd reacted immediately.
Hands raised.
Voices shouting.
People pointing, laughing, calling out names.
Francesco laughed softly under his breath.
"Looks like we're working again," he muttered.
Leah smiled, nudging him gently. "One last shift, captain."
He leaned over slightly, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before stepping forward with the others.
The staff began handing out the balls.
Each player took a handful.
Francesco took three, tucking one under his arm, holding two in his hands.
He glanced out at the stands.
So many faces.
So many smiles.
So many people who had followed every step of this journey with them.
He took a breath.
Then he jogged lightly toward the edge of the pitch.
"Ready?" Robertson called out from a few meters away, already bouncing one of his balls in his hands.
"Just don't miss," Walker added with a grin.
"Watch and learn," Robertson shot back.
The first ball went flying.
A perfect arc into the stands.
The fans erupted as someone caught it, lifting it high above their head.
Cheers exploded around them.
Then another.
And another.
All around the pitch, players began launching signed balls into the crowd.
Per carefully tossed one with a gentle, precise throw toward a section filled with younger supporters, making sure it landed safely.
Kanté did the same, giving a shy wave afterward as the fans cheered his name.
Giroud, of course, made a show of it with pretending to wind up like a striker before launching the ball with a dramatic swing of his arm, earning laughter and cheers in return.
Francesco stepped up to the touchline.
He looked at the first ball in his hands.
Took aim at a group of supporters who had been chanting his name.
Then he launched it.
The ball soared, spinning through the air before dropping perfectly into the crowd.
The reaction was instant.
A surge of noise.
Hands reaching.
Someone caught it cleanly.
They held it up like a trophy.
Francesco raised his arm toward them, pointing and smiling.
Leah watched from behind him, laughing softly as he sent the second ball out into another section.
"Careful," she called out playfully. "Don't take out anyone!"
"No promises!" he called back with a grin.
The third ball he held for a moment longer.
He turned slightly, scanning the stands.
Then he spotted them.
A small group.
Children.
Wearing shirts with his name on the back.
Eyes wide.
Jumping.
Shouting.
He smiled.
Took one step forward.
And tossed the ball gently, making sure it dropped safely right into their section.
The children screamed in excitement, hugging each other, holding the ball between them like it was something priceless.
Francesco stood there for a second, just watching them.
That.
That was what it was all about.
He turned back toward Leah.
"Worth it," he said quietly.
She nodded, her expression soft. "Always."
All around them, the celebration continued.
Balls flying.
Fans cheering.
Players laughing.
The music rising again in the background, upbeat now, joyful, light.
The sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, casting a warmer, softer glow across the stadium.
The shadows stretched longer across the pitch.
But the energy didn't fade.
If anything, it deepened.
Because everyone there knew…
This was the last stretch of the day.
And nobody wanted it to end.
Eventually, the final balls were thrown.
The last cheers echoed.
Players gathered again toward the center of the pitch.
The host stepped forward one final time.
His voice carried a sense of closure now, but also gratitude.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
The crowd responded again, though softer now, their voices hoarse from hours of singing and cheering.
"…on behalf of everyone at Arsenal Football Club…"
He paused, looking around at the players, the staff, the families, the supporters.
"…thank you."
Applause rolled through the stadium.
"Thank you for your support… for your belief… for your passion…"
He smiled warmly.
"…and for making this season one of the greatest in the history of football."
The crowd roared again, though now there was something emotional in it.
Something bittersweet.
"Please travel home safely," the host continued gently. "Hold onto these memories… and we will see you again next season."
A final swell of applause.
A final wave of chants rising.
"ARSENAL! ARSENAL! ARSENAL!"
The players stood together, clapping toward the fans.
Francesco raised both arms high, applauding the supporters, turning slowly in a full circle so he could face every stand.
Leah stood beside him, smiling, one hand still resting lightly on his back.
Wenger stepped forward slightly, lifting his hand once more in a gesture of thanks.
And slowly…
Very slowly…
The crowd began to move.
Not all at once.
Not eagerly.
Reluctantly.
People lingering.
Taking photos.
Looking back over their shoulders at the pitch one last time.
Holding onto the moment for just a few seconds longer before finally turning toward the exits.
It was the kind of leaving that didn't feel like leaving.
More like… carrying something with you.
On the pitch, staff began guiding the players and their families back toward the tunnel.
"Time to head in," one of the coordinators called gently.
Francesco nodded.
He turned to Leah.
"Ready?"
She smiled. "With you? Always."
They walked together toward the tunnel, Cheddar still nestled comfortably in her arms.
Around them, teammates did the same.
Arms around partners.
Children walking between them.
Laughter continuing in softer tones now, relaxed, content.
At the entrance to the tunnel, Francesco paused for a second.
He turned back.
Looked out at the stadium one last time.
The stands still filled with people slowly filtering out.
The banners.
The flags.
The echoes of chants still bouncing faintly off the structure.
He took a breath.
Then he stepped inside.
The tunnel swallowed the noise gradually, replacing it with the softer sounds of footsteps, quiet conversations, the hum of staff organizing the final logistics of the day.
The dressing room doors opened.
Inside, it was calmer.
The celebration had already happened.
This now was the afterglow.
Players changing out of their kits.
Staff moving about.
Laughter drifting in gentle waves rather than explosive bursts.
Francesco slipped off his boots, pulling on a clean shirt, running a hand through his hair.
Leah sat nearby for a moment, still holding Cheddar, chatting softly with one of the other partners.
After a few minutes, one of the staff members leaned in.
"The bus is ready."
There was a collective nod.
No rush.
No urgency.
Just a quiet understanding that the day wasn't over yet.
It was simply… moving to its next chapter.
They gathered their things.
Francesco picked up his jacket.
Leah stood, adjusting Cheddar comfortably in her arms.
"Hotel?" she asked.
He nodded. "Hotel."
They walked back out through the service corridor and toward the players' entrance.
Outside, the team bus waited.
Polished.
Lights glowing softly in the early evening light.
Security and staff stood nearby, coordinating everything smoothly.
The players boarded one by one.
Francesco stepped up, turning slightly to help Leah onto the bus before following her inside.
The interior was warm.
Comfortable.
Soft lights overhead.
The low murmur of teammates already seated, talking quietly, replaying moments from the day.
Francesco slid into a seat beside Leah.
She rested her head lightly against his shoulder.
Cheddar curled up in her lap, finally settling fully after the long, exciting day.
Through the window, Francesco watched as the last groups of fans outside the stadium waved as the bus doors closed.
He lifted his hand, waving back.
A small smile on his face.
The engine hummed to life.
The bus began to move.
Slowly at first.
Then steadily, rolling away from the stadium that had just witnessed history.
As they pulled out onto the road, the city around them glowed in the warm tones of early evening.
The celebration wasn't over.
Not yet.
It was simply… continuing.
At the hotel.
With their families.
With their manager.
With the staff who had been there every step of the way.
The bus rolled on through the London evening, the city lights beginning to glow softly as dusk settled over the streets.
Inside, the mood was different now.
Still joyful.
Still full of laughter.
But calmer.
Looser.
Like the deep exhale after something immense had finally been completed.
Francesco leaned back in his seat, one arm draped comfortably along the backrest behind Leah. She rested against him, her head nestled just beneath his chin, Cheddar curled up in her lap like a small, breathing bundle of peace after the long day.
Around them, the bus hummed with quiet conversations.
A few rows ahead, Arsène Wenger was speaking softly with one of his assistant coaches, the faintest smile still lingering on his face.
Across the aisle, Per and Giroud were replaying a moment from the match on someone's phone, laughing at a missed chance that no longer mattered.
Kanté sat quietly by the window, watching the city pass by, hands folded loosely in his lap, content in that quiet way of his.
At the back, Robertson and Walker were still teasing each other about who had thrown the best ball into the stands.
Leah shifted slightly, adjusting Cheddar's position so he stayed comfortable.
"He's completely gone," she whispered softly, smiling down at the little dog.
Francesco glanced down. Cheddar was asleep, paws tucked, chest rising and falling slowly.
"Long day for him," Francesco murmured.
"Long day for all of you," she replied.
He smiled faintly.
"Worth every second."
The bus turned one last corner.
Then, gradually, it slowed.
The grand entrance of the hotel came into view, lights glowing warmly across its facade.
Security and staff were already waiting outside.
The bus rolled to a gentle stop.
For a second, nobody moved.
It was like they were savoring the final quiet moment together before stepping back into another celebration.
Then one of the staff members near the front stood.
"Alright, gentlemen," he said warmly. "We're here."
There was a soft ripple of movement.
Players stretching.
Standing.
Collecting jackets and bags.
Francesco stood as well, offering Leah his hand as she carefully rose with Cheddar in her arms.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
She smiled. "Let's go celebrate properly."
They stepped off the bus together.
The evening air greeted them cool and fresh.
Hotel staff lined the entrance, smiling, welcoming them with polite applause as they arrived.
"Congratulations," one of them said warmly.
"Thank you," Francesco replied, nodding with quiet appreciation.
They were quickly guided inside.
The lobby was elegant, softly lit, polished marble floors reflecting the golden glow of chandeliers above. The faint sound of music drifted from somewhere deeper inside the building.
"Right this way," one of the staff members said, gesturing toward a corridor leading further in.
The group moved together from players, families, coaches, staff as all flowing in one direction.
Toward the ballroom.
The doors opened.
And immediately, the atmosphere changed again.
Warm light.
Music.
Voices.
Laughter.
A full celebration already in motion.
Inside the ballroom, the club's inner circle had already gathered.
At the far side of the room stood Ivan Gazidis, speaking with several members of the Arsenal hierarchy. Beside him were the club's owner, Stan Kroenke, and his son, Josh Kroenke.
They turned as the players entered.
Ivan stepped forward immediately, smiling broadly, arms open.
"Gentlemen!" he called out. "Champions!"
The room responded with cheers.
Glasses lifted.
Applause rolled.
Francesco felt a hand clap his shoulder as he stepped further inside.
"Captain," Ivan said warmly as he approached, shaking his hand firmly. "Incredible. Every single one of you."
"Thank you," Francesco replied sincerely.
Stan Kroenke stepped forward next, his handshake firm but measured.
"Well done," he said simply. "You've made the club proud."
Josh followed, smiling more openly, nodding at the players as they passed.
"Enjoy tonight," he added.
The players filtered deeper into the room, greeted by staff, coaches, families already gathered.
Music played softly at first that elegant, celebratory.
Tables lined the sides of the ballroom, filled with food, drinks, and space for people to gather in small groups.
Francesco and Leah moved together toward a quieter corner for a moment, giving Cheddar a place to settle down.
"He might need a break," Leah said gently, setting the dog's small carrier bag beside a chair so he could rest.
Francesco nodded. "He's earned it."
Across the room, Ivan was now addressing a small group of Arsenal staff members with faces serious now, conversation quieter, more private.
Francesco didn't hear it all.
But pieces carried.
Ivan's voice, calm but deliberate.
"Mr. Stan Kroenke will be the club's sole owner from now on…"
A pause.
"…this information stays internal until further notice."
There were nods.
Quiet acknowledgments.
Professional understanding.
Then the tone shifted again, the serious note folding back into the larger celebration around them.
Music grew louder.
Drinks were poured.
Laughter returned in waves.
The night began properly.
Hours passed in a blur of joy.
Glasses clinked.
Voices rose.
Music shifted from soft to lively.
Some players took to the dance floor, laughing as they moved without rhythm but full of freedom.
Robertson pulled Walker along into a ridiculous attempt at synchronized dancing that had half the room laughing.
Giroud twirled one of the staff members dramatically, earning applause and cheers.
Kanté, after much encouragement stepped in for a few shy dance steps before retreating again with a bashful grin.
At one side of the room, a billiard table had been set up.
A few of the players gathered there, cue sticks in hand, competing in friendly matches that involved as much laughter as skill.
Francesco found himself there for a while, leaning casually against the table, watching a game unfold.
"Your turn, skipper," someone called out.
He smiled, taking the cue stick, lining up a shot with relaxed ease.
Leah watched from nearby, sipping a soft drink, smiling as she observed him in this different setting that loose, relaxed, still focused but without pressure.
Francesco sank the shot cleanly.
"Still got it," he joked.
"Wrong sport," Walker called out from behind him, earning a round of laughter.
Throughout the evening, drinks flowed freely.
Wine.
Champagne.
Celebratory toasts.
But Francesco and a handful of the younger players stayed with soft drinks, water, or juice as they still underage, still disciplined, still respecting the boundaries even on a night like this.
Leah nudged him once, smiling.
"Responsible captain," she teased.
"Someone has to remember everything tomorrow," he replied with a grin.
Time moved quickly.
The clock ticked closer to 9 PM.
Gradually, the energy softened again.
People grew tired in the best possible way that happy, full, content.
One by one, small groups began to say their goodbyes.
Staff shaking hands.
Coaches exchanging hugs.
Players clapping each other on the back.
Wenger moved through the room slowly, speaking with everyone, thanking them, congratulating them again with quiet sincerity.
Francesco approached him before leaving.
"Boss," he said.
Wenger turned, smiling warmly.
"Captain."
They shook hands.
"Thank you," Francesco said quietly.
Wenger shook his head gently. "No. Thank you. All of you. You made this possible."
There was a moment of understanding between them.
Then Wenger smiled again.
"Now go. Enjoy your evening. You've earned it."
Francesco nodded.
He found Leah again, who had just lifted Cheddar back into her arms as the little dog stirred awake.
"Ready to go home?" she asked softly.
He smiled.
"Yeah. Home."
They said their goodbyes.
To teammates.
To staff.
To friends.
Then they stepped out of the ballroom together, back into the quieter hotel corridors.
Outside, the night air had settled fully.
The city lights shimmered around them.
Francesco raised a hand to call for a taxi waiting near the entrance.
One pulled forward almost immediately.
He opened the door for Leah, helping her and Cheddar inside before sliding in beside them.
"Richmond," he told the driver.
The taxi pulled away smoothly into the London night.
Inside, it was quiet.
Peaceful.
Leah leaned her head against his shoulder again.
Cheddar curled between them, half asleep once more.
Francesco looked out the window as the city passed by.
"So," Leah said softly after a moment. "How does it feel?"
He thought about it.
All of it.
The season.
The victories.
The pressure.
The celebrations.
The people.
The memories.
He smiled gently.
"Complete," he said.
She squeezed his hand.
They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
Eventually, the taxi turned into the quiet streets of Richmond.
The familiar gates of Francesco's mansion came into view.
The car rolled to a stop.
Francesco paid the driver, stepped out, then opened the door for Leah again.
The night was calm.
Still.
Peaceful in a way that felt completely different from the roar of the stadium just hours earlier.
They walked up the path together.
Inside, the house welcomed them with silence and warmth.
Leah carefully set Cheddar down, letting him wander a little before guiding him toward his bed.
Francesco slipped off his jacket, placing it over the back of a chair.
He looked around.
At his home.
At Leah.
At Cheddar now settling comfortably.
And he let out a long, slow breath.
Behind him, Leah slipped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against his back.
"Home," she whispered.
He placed his hand gently over hers.
"Home."
Outside, London carried on.
But inside, for that moment everything was exactly where it was meant to be. And tomorrow would come in its own time as for now, they went to rest.
______________________________________________
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