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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
They stood shoulder to shoulder, applauding the supporters who had filled Wembley with red and white throughout the afternoon.
The applause followed Arsenal all the way around Wembley before slowly fading into a chorus of songs that continued long after the players had reached the edge of the pitch.
One by one, they offered a final wave toward the sea of red and white.
Some supporters remained with scarves held high.
Others simply applauded without stopping, determined to acknowledge every player who had contributed to another memorable afternoon.
Five goals.
Another clean sheet.
Another trip to a major final.
Yet there were no wild celebrations from the Arsenal squad.
There would be time for those only when silverware had actually been won.
For now, satisfaction mixed naturally with professionalism.
Francesco exchanged a final clap with the supporters before turning toward the tunnel.
Beside him, Saka could hardly stop smiling.
Ramsey nudged the youngster gently.
"You've just played a Wembley semi-final."
"I know."
"You scored."
"I know."
"You assisted."
Saka laughed.
"I know."
Ramsey grinned.
"Good."
"Just making sure you've realised what you've done."
Holding walked between them.
"He'll probably realise it when his phone explodes."
"It's already vibrating," Saka admitted, patting the pocket of his tracksuit shorts.
"Don't look yet," Mustafi advised.
"Enjoy this first."
The players disappeared beneath the stands, where the echo of eighty thousand supporters gradually gave way to the quieter sounds of stadium staff beginning their work.
Security personnel directed officials through different corridors.
Groundskeepers were already preparing equipment for the evening.
Television crews hurried toward interview positions before the next broadcast window closed.
The mood inside Arsenal's group remained wonderfully relaxed.
Walker stretched both arms above his head.
"I've decided."
Robertson looked across.
"That sounds dangerous."
"I quite enjoy Wembley."
"You've only just figured that out?"
Walker nodded seriously.
"Took me a while."
Van Dijk chuckled.
"I'll write today's discovery down."
Laughter spread naturally through the group.
Just before they reached the dressing-room entrance, an FA media coordinator stepped politely into their path.
"Excuse me."
"Olivier?"
Giroud looked around.
"Yes?"
"We'd like a quick flash interview, please."
Another UEFA media official appeared beside him carrying a headset.
"Only a few minutes."
Walker immediately clapped loudly.
"There he is!"
"Our superstar!"
Robertson joined in without hesitation.
"Don't forget us when you're famous."
Ramsey pointed dramatically toward Giroud.
"Remember the little people."
Even Nketiah joined the applause.
"Well deserved."
Giroud rolled his eyes with theatrical exhaustion.
"You're all impossible."
Francesco laughed.
"Go on."
"You earned it."
The French striker shrugged with an amused smile.
"I'll catch you inside."
As Giroud disappeared toward the interview area surrounded by camera operators, the rest of the squad applauded once more before continuing down the corridor.
"Well," Walker said.
"At least somebody has to answer questions."
Francesco glanced sideways.
"You're disappointed it isn't you?"
"Not at all."
Walker paused.
"Actually… maybe a little."
Robertson laughed.
"You'd still be answering the first question tomorrow morning."
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere immediately settled into the familiar rhythm that followed a successful afternoon.
Recovery drinks had already been arranged beside every locker.
Ice baths were being prepared nearby.
Physiotherapists quietly organised treatment tables while sports scientists downloaded GPS data from the players' performance vests.
No music blasted through the speakers.
Instead, conversations drifted comfortably around the room.
Satisfied.
Unhurried.
Professional.
"Excellent work today," Raya said as he removed his gloves.
Holding smiled.
"You made enough saves behind us."
"So did you."
Mustafi tapped Holding lightly on the shoulder.
"The clean sheet belongs to everyone."
Francesco walked over to Saka.
"You enjoyed yourself?"
The youngster nodded immediately.
"I don't think I've ever enjoyed ninety minutes more."
"You still tracked back in the eighty-eighth minute."
"I heard your voice."
Francesco laughed.
"So you did."
"I wasn't going to ignore the captain."
"Smart decision."
Nearby, Smith Rowe sat quietly removing tape from around his ankles.
The smile hadn't left his face since full-time.
Francesco walked over and held out his hand.
"One assist at Wembley."
"Not a bad afternoon."
Smith Rowe shook it.
"I nearly overhit the pass."
"You didn't."
"You made it look easier than it was."
Francesco smiled.
"That's usually the striker's job."
Around them, players gradually disappeared toward the showers.
The hot water washed away the physical demands of another intense match.
Muscles slowly relaxed beneath the steam.
Conversation continued between neighbouring showers.
Walker's voice echoed first.
"Who's stealing my shampoo?"
Robertson answered immediately.
"Probably because you forgot to bring one."
"I definitely packed it."
"You definitely didn't."
"I blame the kit man."
A member of staff laughed from outside.
"Nice try."
One by one, the players emerged dressed in Arsenal's dark travel jumpsuits.
Fresh trainers replaced football boots.
Wet hair replaced carefully styled pre-match appearances.
The intensity of Wembley already felt surprisingly distant.
Cazorla sat beside Ramsey enjoying fresh fruit supplied by the nutrition staff.
"You know," Ramsey smiled, "Bukayo made my goal look very easy."
Cazorla laughed.
"You're welcome."
"You didn't assist it."
"No."
"But I encouraged him all week."
"So naturally the credit belongs to you."
"Obviously."
The dressing room burst into laughter again.
Several minutes later the door opened once more.
Giroud finally returned.
Tucked comfortably beneath one arm rested the official FA Player of the Match trophy.
Walker spotted it instantly.
"Oh no."
"He's brought evidence."
Robertson stood dramatically.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
"Our celebrity returns."
Ramsey applauded loudly.
"Well done, Olivier!"
Soon the entire room joined in.
Cheers echoed around the dressing room.
Nketiah whistled.
Smith Rowe clapped enthusiastically.
Even the medical staff joined the applause.
Giroud lifted both hands.
"Enough."
"You're embarrassing yourselves."
Walker pointed toward the trophy.
"You mean embarrassing you?"
"I've only been gone ten minutes."
"And you've already won something."
Robertson looked thoughtfully at the award.
"It's quite shiny."
"Don't touch it."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were absolutely going to."
"I was considering it."
Francesco walked over and shook Giroud's hand.
"Congratulations."
"You deserved it."
Giroud smiled warmly.
"Thank you."
Then, without hesitation, he placed the trophy carefully on the central table.
"This isn't really mine."
Walker folded his arms dramatically.
"Wrong answer."
"It is."
Giroud shook his head.
"No."
"I scored because of Jack."
"Because of Santi."
"Because Bukayo stretched them."
"Because Aaron kept arriving."
"Because the defenders won the ball."
"Because David kept us calm."
He looked around the room.
"This belongs to everyone."
For a brief moment, nobody joked.
There was only quiet appreciation.
Francesco nodded.
"Well said."
Only then did Walker ruin the serious atmosphere.
"Fine."
"So we'll all take it home one day each."
Laughter immediately returned.
The dressing-room door opened again.
Arsène Wenger stepped inside carrying a folder beneath one arm.
The room instinctively settled.
The manager looked around at tired but smiling faces.
"I won't keep you long."
His expression softened.
"That was an excellent performance."
"You respected the occasion."
"You respected the opponent."
"And you played exactly the football we prepared throughout the week."
He glanced toward Giroud.
"Olivier."
"You rewarded my confidence."
The French striker nodded appreciatively.
"Thank you, boss."
Then Wenger turned toward another corner of the room.
"Santi."
Cazorla looked up.
"Yes?"
"You'll join me for the press conference."
The Spaniard smiled.
"Of course."
"You controlled the midfield beautifully."
"And your assist deserved recognition."
Cazorla stood.
"I'll get changed."
Wenger looked back across the rest of the squad.
"The rest of you…"
"Finish recovering."
"Board the coach."
"We'll meet you outside shortly."
"Enjoy today."
"But remember…"
He smiled faintly.
"The schedule does not become easier."
Nobody needed reminding.
Manchester United.
Old Trafford.
Then Rome.
Then a Champions League final still waiting to be earned.
The players gradually collected their bags before making their way through Wembley once again.
Outside, the evening sky had turned a rich shade of orange as the sun slowly disappeared behind the famous arch.
Supporters still waited behind barriers hoping for one last glimpse.
The Arsenal coach stood ready nearby.
Players boarded in small groups.
Walker immediately looked toward the empty front seats.
"How long do you reckon?"
Robertson shrugged.
"Depends."
"If the journalists ask about your hairstyle… another hour."
Walker looked horrified.
"I'd never survive."
Francesco settled beside Van Dijk while Saka sat nearby still replying to dozens of congratulatory messages.
"You'll need a new phone charger," Ramsey joked.
"I think I already do."
The coach remained parked for another fifteen minutes.
Eventually applause erupted near the entrance.
"There they are," Holding said.
Wenger and Cazorla emerged together after completing their media duties.
Walker stood dramatically.
"About time!"
"We were considering leaving."
Cazorla laughed as he climbed aboard.
"You'd miss me too much."
"That's true."
Walker nodded thoughtfully.
"You're useful at corners."
Even Wenger smiled before taking his seat.
Moments later the coach pulled smoothly away from Wembley.
Outside, supporters continued celebrating throughout the streets.
Inside, the atmosphere became wonderfully relaxed.
Boots had been replaced by comfortable trainers.
Recovery meals were handed around.
Several players leaned back with satisfied expressions.
Conversation gradually shifted away from Southampton.
Ramsey broke the silence.
"So."
"Old Trafford next."
Walker nodded.
"Never the easiest place."
Holding looked up from his recovery drink.
"Strange feeling though."
"What?"
"We've already won the league."
Several heads turned.
"It still feels strange saying it."
Robertson smiled.
"Mathematically done."
"Whatever happens against United."
"We'll lift the trophy afterwards."
"That'll be some day."
Saka's eyes brightened.
"My first Premier League title."
"Not bad," Bellerín smiled.
Walker grinned.
"So technically…"
"We could lose."
Several players laughed.
Before anyone could continue, Francesco looked across the aisle.
"I don't like that word."
The laughter faded naturally.
Walker recognised the tone immediately.
Francesco wasn't angry.
Just focused.
"We're champions," Francesco continued calmly.
"Exactly."
"So why would champions go somewhere expecting anything except to win?"
Nobody interrupted.
He looked around the coach.
"When people remember this team…"
"I don't want them saying we relaxed because the title was already secured."
"I want them saying we played every match with the same standards."
"Whether the trophy presentation comes afterwards or not doesn't change our responsibility."
Van Dijk nodded slowly.
"That's the right mentality."
Kanté smiled quietly.
"Every match deserves respect."
Ramsey leaned back.
"He's right."
"Old Trafford is Old Trafford."
"If we're going there…"
"We go there to win."
Walker raised both hands.
"Fair enough."
"I wasn't planning to lose anyway."
Robertson looked across with a grin.
"You literally just suggested it."
"I suggested possibilities."
"You suggested nonsense."
The coach laughed again.
Near the front, Wenger listened without saying anything.
Steve Bould glanced toward him.
The manager simply nodded once.
He hadn't needed to make the speech himself.
His captain already had.
The conversation naturally continued toward Manchester United.
Who might start.
How intense Old Trafford always felt.
Whether the home supporters would give newly crowned champions a guard of honour.
Nobody knew for certain.
Speculation mixed with friendly jokes until fatigue gradually caught up with everyone.
The further north they travelled, the quieter the coach became.
Some players watched tactical clips on tablets.
Others rested with headphones on.
A few simply stared out into the passing lights of the motorway.
Eventually London Colney appeared beyond the darkness.
The coach rolled through the familiar gates before stopping outside the first-team building.
It was fully night now.
The training ground sat peacefully beneath rows of floodlights.
Players rose slowly, collecting backpacks and recovery bags.
There was no rush.
Just the comfortable routine that had become second nature throughout a remarkable season.
"See you tomorrow," Holding called.
"Recover well," Raya replied.
Walker slung his bag over one shoulder.
"Don't be late."
Robertson looked at him.
"You're always late."
"Details."
Saka shook hands with Giroud.
"Thanks for everything this week."
The French striker smiled.
"You earned today yourself."
Francesco waited near the entrance until most of the younger players had collected their things.
"Drive safely," he reminded them.
Smith Rowe nodded.
"You too, skipper."
One by one, engines started across the car park.
Headlights swept across the quiet buildings before disappearing through the gates into the London night.
Francesco paused for a moment beside his car and looked back toward the empty training pitches.
Another hurdle had been cleared.
The FA Cup Final awaited.
The Premier League trophy presentation at Old Trafford was only days away.
As three days slipped by almost unnoticed.
The glow of Wembley faded with surprising speed.
Photographs of Olivier Giroud holding the Player of the Match award still appeared across newspapers, television highlights continued replaying Bukayo Saka's wonderful solo goal, and supporters were already talking excitedly about another FA Cup Final.
Inside Arsenal, however, the mood changed almost as soon as the recovery sessions ended.
Football rarely allowed anyone to linger on yesterday.
Especially in April.
Especially during a season like this.
By Monday morning, London Colney looked exactly as it always did after a successful weekend.
Groundskeepers cut the grass with almost mathematical precision.
The sprinklers swept across the training pitches before sunrise.
Members of the medical department moved from room to room carrying tablets and assessment sheets.
Nutrition staff prepared breakfast while players gradually filtered into the building.
The large fixture board outside the first-team changing room had changed once again.
Gone were the photographs of Wembley.
Gone were the tactical notes on Southampton.
Only one crest remained.
Manchester United.
Old Trafford.
Premier League.
Underneath, someone from the equipment staff had written in black marker:
Matchday -3
Walker arrived first among the regular starters, carrying a coffee that looked almost as large as his water bottle.
Robertson noticed immediately.
"Planning on staying awake until kick-off?"
Walker glanced down.
"This?"
"It's medicinal."
Robertson shook his head.
"You say that every Monday."
"And every Monday I'm right."
Behind them, Van Dijk walked into the dressing room with Francesco, both having already finished their routine medical assessments.
The Dutch defender looked toward the fixture board for a second before sitting down.
"Back to the league."
Francesco nodded.
"Back to work."
There was no dramatic speech.
No declaration.
Just acceptance.
The rhythm of another week had begun.
Recovery had officially given way to preparation.
Shad Forsythe and the sports science staff spent the early morning reviewing data collected after Wembley.
GPS numbers.
Heart-rate recovery.
Sprint counts.
Accumulated fatigue.
By now, everyone understood the routine.
Players who had completed heavy minutes against Southampton underwent one final series of recovery treatments before gradually returning to full workload.
Those who had only featured briefly or not at all had already maintained their conditioning.
By late morning the squad gathered inside one of the meeting rooms.
Steve Bould stood beside Wenger while several tactical magnets rested on a whiteboard.
The manager waited until everyone had settled.
His eyes travelled slowly around the room.
"We return to our strongest group."
Nobody looked surprised.
It had always been expected.
The FA Cup belonged to one chapter.
The Premier League belonged to another.
Wenger picked up the magnets one by one.
"Petr."
Čech nodded quietly.
"Kyle."
"Virgil."
"Laurent."
"Andrew."
The defensive unit formed naturally.
"N'Golo."
"Granit."
Then came the familiar attacking names.
"Mesut."
"Alexis."
"Serge."
Finally…
"Francesco."
The eleven remained on the board.
"Our work over the next three days is entirely focused on Manchester United."
He looked toward Giroud, Cazorla, Ramsey, Raya and the other players who had started at Wembley.
"The rest of you will help prepare them."
There wasn't even the slightest hint of disappointment.
Giroud simply smiled.
"We'll make life difficult for them."
Walker immediately groaned.
"You always do."
"That's the point."
Laughter drifted around the room.
The first session felt noticeably sharper than anything from the previous week.
The FA Cup group had spent days rehearsing patterns together.
Now the established league side reclaimed the central pitch.
Steve Bould divided the squad into two colours before blowing his whistle.
"Press."
The intensity rose almost instantly.
Walker exploded forward to close Robertson.
Alexis hunted possession with the same relentless energy he showed on matchdays.
Kanté somehow appeared everywhere at once.
Francesco drifted away from Holding before spinning into the space behind him.
Özil found him immediately.
One touch.
Lay-off.
Gnabry sprinted beyond.
Cross.
Goal.
Steve Bould nodded.
"Again."
There were no celebrations.
Everyone jogged back into position.
Once more.
This time United's expected defensive shape had been marked out using training poles.
The movements repeated.
Quick passing.
Third-man runs.
Overlaps.
Counter-pressing.
Every detail had been planned.
Whenever possession changed hands, Wenger's voice echoed calmly across the pitch.
"Five seconds."
The players knew exactly what he meant.
Recover the ball immediately.
Kanté led the press.
Francesco shut off the passing lane.
Alexis forced the defender toward the touchline.
Walker stepped in.
Possession won back.
"Excellent," Wenger called.
"Again."
On the neighbouring pitch, the remaining squad played their part without complaint.
Giroud battled Van Dijk during crossing drills.
Ramsey repeatedly drove forward to simulate Bruno Fernandes' late midfield runs.
Saka challenged Robertson one against one.
Smith Rowe copied the movement of United's attacking midfielders during defensive exercises.
The purpose was obvious.
Help the starters prepare.
Holding eventually caught Francesco after one particularly intense pressing sequence.
"You know…"
"What?"
"I'd quite like one easy training session."
Francesco smiled.
"You joined the wrong club."
"I realised."
"But I was hoping Wenger might forget."
"He never forgets."
Holding sighed dramatically.
"I know."
By the second day, the workload increased again.
Transition exercises dominated the morning.
Manchester United under José Mourinho rarely gifted opponents easy moments.
Even though Arsenal had already secured the Premier League title mathematically, nobody spoke about the match as though it were ceremonial.
United sat third.
Old Trafford remained one of the country's most intimidating stadiums.
And Mourinho…
He never accepted defeat willingly.
That reality seemed to sharpen Wenger's concentration even further.
From the touchline, he missed almost nothing.
He stopped play to correct Walker's positioning by half a metre.
He asked Özil to receive on a different shoulder.
He reminded Xhaka to release possession one touch earlier.
Tiny adjustments.
Marginal gains.
Details that often decided matches between elite sides.
Steve Bould walked alongside him.
"They're focused."
"They'll need to be."
"You've always enjoyed these games."
A faint smile crossed Wenger's face.
"I enjoy difficult football matches."
Bould knew better.
Everyone around the club understood the history.
For years Wenger and Mourinho had tested each other through tactical battles, psychological contests and unforgettable touchline moments.
Neither manager ever approached those fixtures casually.
Neither wanted to lose.
The dressing room remained lively despite the demanding sessions.
After lunch, Walker stretched carefully beside Kanté.
"I've discovered something."
Kanté looked up.
"What?"
"I'm getting older."
Robertson overheard him immediately.
"You've only just noticed?"
"My hamstrings noticed first."
Van Dijk laughed without looking up from tying his boots.
"They've been trying to tell you for years."
Walker pointed accusingly.
"I preferred it when nobody answered back."
Alexis wandered past.
"You chose the wrong dressing room."
Across the room, Francesco found Saka studying clips from Wembley on his tablet.
"You still watching?"
Saka looked slightly embarrassed.
"Just the goal."
"Only once?"
"…Maybe three times."
Francesco sat beside him.
"You should enjoy moments like that."
The teenager looked surprised.
"I thought you'd tell me to forget it."
"I am."
He smiled.
"But only after you've appreciated what you achieved."
Saka nodded thoughtfully.
"I understand."
"Good."
"Now close it."
"Why?"
"Because we're playing Manchester United."
The tablet disappeared into Saka's bag almost immediately.
Later that afternoon, defensive organisation took centre stage.
Cones divided the pitch into narrow channels.
United's expected attacking patterns had been recreated almost perfectly.
One coaching assistant played the role of Mourinho from the technical area, shouting instructions that sounded remarkably convincing.
Walker burst out laughing halfway through.
"That's actually unsettling."
Even Wenger smiled briefly.
The exercise resumed.
Crosses arrived from wide areas.
Koscielny and Van Dijk dealt confidently with aerial balls.
Čech organised constantly behind them.
"Step."
"Hold."
"Away."
Whenever Arsenal regained possession, the transition happened instantly.
Kanté found Xhaka.
Xhaka switched play toward Robertson.
Özil drifted inside.
Alexis attacked the half-space.
Francesco curved his run between two mannequins representing United's centre-backs.
The ball arrived.
Finish.
Reset.
Repeat.
Hour after hour.
Nobody complained.
Then the evening before departure arrived more quickly than anyone realised.
Training finished slightly earlier than usual.
Players showered before gathering inside the video analysis room.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
Coffee cups replaced footballs.
Notebooks appeared.
The lights dimmed.
The projector hummed softly before illuminating the enormous tactical screen.
Manchester United's crest filled the wall.
Wenger stood quietly beside it with a remote control in one hand.
Behind him appeared footage from United's previous league fixture.
José Mourinho stood in his technical area wearing his familiar dark coat, arms folded.
Wenger allowed the opening minutes to play uninterrupted.
Nobody spoke.
Every player watched carefully.
Eventually the video paused.
"This," Wenger said, pointing toward United's defensive block, "is where everything begins."
He highlighted the distances between the midfield and defence.
"They defend compactly."
"They're patient."
"They rarely chase recklessly."
Another clip followed.
United won possession.
Within seconds they broke forward at remarkable speed.
The image froze.
"Transitions."
He circled three players.
"This is where they become dangerous."
The video resumed.
One pass became two.
Wide runners sprinted into open space.
The attack reached the penalty area in seconds.
"They want opponents to commit numbers."
"So they can attack the spaces left behind."
Walker leaned forward.
"So if our full-backs go…"
"They must recover immediately," Wenger replied.
"Or someone else must cover."
He clicked again.
Another sequence appeared.
This time United pressed high.
The image stopped once more.
"When do they trigger?"
Kanté answered first.
"When the pass goes backwards."
"Correct."
Wenger nodded.
"And?"
Özil raised a hand slightly.
"When the receiver opens his body toward his own goal."
"Exactly."
The manager smiled faintly.
"They press cues."
"Not moments."
The discussion continued naturally.
Van Dijk pointed toward a recurring movement near the far touchline.
"They overload here."
"They do," Wenger agreed.
"How do we solve it?"
Robertson answered.
"The winger tracks inside until support arrives."
"Correct."
Another clip rolled.
Francesco studied the positioning of United's central defenders.
"They leave space behind if the first press is beaten."
Wenger paused the footage immediately.
"Show everyone."
Francesco stood and walked toward the screen.
Using the laser pointer, he traced the movement.
"If Mesut receives here…"
He indicated the pocket between midfield and defence.
"…the centre-back has to decide."
"Step forward…"
He moved the pointer.
"…or leave me running."
Walker grinned.
"Neither sounds enjoyable."
Several teammates chuckled.
Wenger nodded approvingly.
"Exactly."
"Decision-making under pressure."
"That is where we can hurt them."
The meeting lasted almost an hour.
Questions flowed constantly.
What if United switched to a back five?
How would Arsenal respond if Mourinho instructed his midfield to man-mark Özil?
Who covered when Alexis drifted centrally?
Every scenario received careful discussion.
Nobody lost concentration.
Nobody checked their phones.
Nobody whispered.
This was Old Trafford.
Against José Mourinho.
That alone demanded complete attention.
Finally Wenger clicked the remote one last time.
The screen faded to black.
The projector switched off.
Silence settled over the room for a moment before the lights brightened again.
The manager looked around at every face.
"We are already champions."
He spoke quietly.
"But that earns us nothing on Sunday."
His eyes settled briefly on Francesco.
"Champions prove themselves every week."
Francesco nodded.
"So let's prove it again."
Several teammates murmured their agreement.
One by one, chairs slid backwards.
Players gathered notebooks, water bottles and tablets before filing out into the corridor.
Conversations resumed naturally, but they sounded different now.
Lighter jokes had given way to discussions about pressing angles, defensive distances and attacking runs.
Walker caught Robertson beside the exit.
"So…"
"You still think I'm too old?"
Robertson smiled.
"I'll answer after ninety minutes at Old Trafford."
Walker laughed.
"Fair enough."
Francesco was among the last to leave.
Before stepping into the corridor, he glanced once more at the now-dark tactical screen.
Wembley already felt like another chapter.
The FA Cup Final would come later.
The Premier League trophy presentation would wait.
First came ninety minutes against Manchester United.
Against Mourinho.
At Old Trafford.
And Arsenal intended to arrive not as champions content with what they had already achieved, but as champions determined to show exactly why they had earned that title.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 19 (2017)
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, 2016/2017 Champions League, and 2017/2018 Carabao Cup.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 53
Goal: 67
Assist: 6
MOTM: 7
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 4
Goal: 4
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
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