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Red shirts immediately surged forward — Flamini roaring for space, Bellerín darting up the flank. Francesco dropped a shoulder and drifted wide, dragging Janmaat out with him and carving the beginning of a channel.
The early exchanges at the Emirates were cagey but pulsing with intensity—twenty minutes of football that crackled with ambition but gave no easy ground.
As soon as Özil tapped the ball back and Arsenal's rhythm began to build, it was clear Newcastle hadn't come to simply sit back and absorb pressure. They pressed high, not recklessly, but with intelligence—Colback and Wijnaldum stepping forward early, challenging Flamini and Kanté in midfield, forcing Arsenal to think quickly and act quicker.
Francesco moved with the rhythm, constantly peeling into space on the left flank, stretching Newcastle's shape. Janmaat tracked him closely, and for the first ten minutes, the duel between the two was sharp—Francesco using little shoulder feints, sudden bursts of acceleration, testing where the cracks might be in the fullback's approach.
In the 5th minute, Arsenal nearly struck first. Flamini won the ball high off Sissoko and quickly played it forward to Özil, who chipped a first-time pass into Francesco's path. He took it in stride, racing into the box and snapping a low shot toward the near post. Rob Elliot dropped fast, deflecting it wide with the tips of his gloves. It drew a cheer from the crowd and a frustrated puff of air from Francesco, who clapped his hands sharply and nodded. He was feeling it.
Newcastle responded with force. In the 9th minute, Mitrović bullied Van Dijk off a loose ball near midfield and threaded it to Wijnaldum, who drifted dangerously toward the edge of the area before unleashing a curling shot. Čech, in full stretch, parried it away with his left hand. The rebound fell to Pérez, who tried to square it back across goal—but Koscielny was there, sliding in with textbook timing.
Both sides began to trade tempo now—not chaotic, but deliberate. Arsenal's possession game leaned on Özil's vision and the tireless pivot of Kanté, while Newcastle relied on transitions, surging forward with two or three passes at a time, testing Arsenal's shape.
In the 13th minute, Walcott darted inside and combined with Giroud, who laid it off neatly to Francesco arriving just outside the box. One touch, then a rising left-footed shot—again Elliot dove, this time punching it upward and over the bar. The crowd groaned and then clapped. Francesco could feel the heat rising under his collar, his engine already humming.
The corner that followed nearly broke the deadlock—Özil whipped it in with a flat curve, and Van Dijk rose high above Coloccini, his header firm and downward. Elliot, rooted for a moment, reacted just in time, pushing it away with both hands before Janmaat hacked it clear.
But Newcastle didn't rattle. In fact, they grew bolder.
By the 16th minute, the visitors strung together their best move yet—Colback to Pérez to Wijnaldum, slipping past Flamini's lunge before rolling a ball behind Monreal. Sissoko got there first and took it to the byline before cutting it back across goal. Mitrović pounced, firing from six yards.
Čech dropped like a stone, spreading wide, and somehow kept it out with his foot. Gasps turned to chants. His third save already.
The match felt like a pendulum now. Back and forth. Spark and steel.
At the 19th minute, Francesco drifted centrally, dropping deep to collect a pass from Flamini. He turned smoothly, shifted away from Tioté with a dip of his shoulder, and saw Walcott charging into space on the far side. A curling diagonal split two defenders and landed perfectly at Theo's feet.
Walcott touched once, then twice, and cracked a shot toward the far post. Elliot again—third save. Arsenal corner.
Francesco jogged toward the flag with Özil, breathing heavy but steady. The pitch under his boots felt alive, humming. He glanced once toward the VIP box. Leah was there, barely visible through the glass, but he knew she was watching. He could feel it in the marrow of his focus.
He whispered something to Özil—code for a short routine they'd practiced—and stepped off while Özil tapped it gently into space.
Francesco took it, cut inside past one man, and curled a teasing cross to the back post.
Giroud met it with force—but again, Elliot's gloves met the ball, keeping it out.
Twenty minutes. Three shots from Arsenal. Three stops by the Newcastle keeper. And the same on the other end from Petr Čech, the veteran wall refusing to be breached.
No goals. But already, it felt like something was coming.
The Emirates, usually quiet in these moments of tension, was buzzing. The supporters could feel the edge to this match—how neither team had settled, how both had come close.
Francesco jogged back into position after the corner was cleared. He met Theo's eyes across the pitch and nodded.
"Still ours," he mouthed.
Theo grinned. "Let's crack them."
The early exchanges at the Emirates were cagey but pulsing with intensity—twenty minutes of football that crackled with ambition but gave no easy ground.
As soon as Özil tapped the ball back and Arsenal's rhythm began to build, it was clear Newcastle hadn't come to simply sit back and absorb pressure. They pressed high, not recklessly, but with intelligence—Colback and Wijnaldum stepping forward early, challenging Flamini and Kanté in midfield, forcing Arsenal to think quickly and act quicker.
Francesco moved with the rhythm, constantly peeling into space on the left flank, stretching Newcastle's shape. Janmaat tracked him closely, and for the first ten minutes, the duel between the two was sharp—Francesco using little shoulder feints, sudden bursts of acceleration, testing where the cracks might be in the fullback's approach.
In the 5th minute, Arsenal nearly struck first. Flamini won the ball high off Sissoko and quickly played it forward to Özil, who chipped a first-time pass into Francesco's path. He took it in stride, racing into the box and snapping a low shot toward the near post. Rob Elliot dropped fast, deflecting it wide with the tips of his gloves. It drew a cheer from the crowd and a frustrated puff of air from Francesco, who clapped his hands sharply and nodded. He was feeling it.
Newcastle responded with force. In the 9th minute, Mitrović bullied Van Dijk off a loose ball near midfield and threaded it to Wijnaldum, who drifted dangerously toward the edge of the area before unleashing a curling shot. Čech, in full stretch, parried it away with his left hand. The rebound fell to Pérez, who tried to square it back across goal—but Koscielny was there, sliding in with textbook timing.
Both sides began to trade tempo now—not chaotic, but deliberate. Arsenal's possession game leaned on Özil's vision and the tireless pivot of Kanté, while Newcastle relied on transitions, surging forward with two or three passes at a time, testing Arsenal's shape.
In the 13th minute, Walcott darted inside and combined with Giroud, who laid it off neatly to Francesco arriving just outside the box. One touch, then a rising left-footed shot—again Elliot dove, this time punching it upward and over the bar. The crowd groaned and then clapped. Francesco could feel the heat rising under his collar, his engine already humming.
The corner that followed nearly broke the deadlock—Özil whipped it in with a flat curve, and Van Dijk rose high above Coloccini, his header firm and downward. Elliot, rooted for a moment, reacted just in time, pushing it away with both hands before Janmaat hacked it clear.
But Newcastle didn't rattle. In fact, they grew bolder.
By the 16th minute, the visitors strung together their best move yet—Colback to Pérez to Wijnaldum, slipping past Flamini's lunge before rolling a ball behind Monreal. Sissoko got there first and took it to the byline before cutting it back across goal. Mitrović pounced, firing from six yards.
Čech dropped like a stone, spreading wide, and somehow kept it out with his foot. Gasps turned to chants. His third save already.
The match felt like a pendulum now. Back and forth. Spark and steel.
At the 19th minute, Francesco drifted centrally, dropping deep to collect a pass from Flamini. He turned smoothly, shifted away from Tioté with a dip of his shoulder, and saw Walcott charging into space on the far side. A curling diagonal split two defenders and landed perfectly at Theo's feet.
Walcott touched once, then twice, and cracked a shot toward the far post. Elliot again—third save. Arsenal corner.
Francesco jogged toward the flag with Özil, breathing heavy but steady. The pitch under his boots felt alive, humming. He glanced once toward the VIP box. Leah was there, barely visible through the glass, but he knew she was watching. He could feel it in the marrow of his focus.
He whispered something to Özil—code for a short routine they'd practiced—and stepped off while Özil tapped it gently into space.
Francesco took it, cut inside past one man, and curled a teasing cross to the back post.
Giroud met it with force—but again, Elliot's gloves met the ball, keeping it out.
Twenty minutes. Three shots from Arsenal. Three stops by the Newcastle keeper. And the same on the other end from Petr Čech, the veteran wall refusing to be breached.
No goals. But already, it felt like something was coming.
The Emirates, usually quiet in these moments of tension, was buzzing. The supporters could feel the edge to this match—how neither team had settled, how both had come close.
Francesco jogged back into position after the corner was cleared. He met Theo's eyes across the pitch and nodded.
"Still ours," he mouthed.
Theo grinned. "Let's crack them."
The walk into the tunnel was a procession of breaths and heartbeats, of glances traded between sweat-slicked faces, and that lingering high that only a goal—that kind of goal—could leave behind. Francesco's boots echoed with a rhythm he'd come to know well: adrenaline in his blood, vision sharpening, lungs gulping down air heavy with anticipation and spent energy.
As they reached the mouth of the tunnel, the din of the Emirates dulled into a muffled roar behind them, like thunder echoing behind hills.
Inside the tunnel, the air was different. Still charged, but cooler. Less wild. Fluorescent lights buzzed above. Trainers clapped shoulders. Water bottles passed hands. And behind it all, Wenger stood near the dressing room door, arms crossed, nodding slightly to each of them as they passed. No overreaction, no over-celebration—just focus.
Francesco was one of the last to enter the dressing room, taking a final look back toward the pitch before stepping through the threshold.
Inside, the familiar space hummed with low voices and movement. Players peeled off damp shirts, toweling off and catching their breath. The walls bore the faint aroma of liniment, sweat, and the sharp citrus tang of energy drinks. Kitmen moved with silent efficiency, replacing soaked gear with fresh kits, refilling bottles, laying out energy gels.
Francesco sank into his seat near Özil and Walcott, a bottle of water already in hand. He gulped it down, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and leaned forward, elbows on knees, his thoughts already dissecting the first half.
Wenger entered a moment later, his steps deliberate. As always, he didn't shout to be heard. He didn't have to.
The room quieted without command.
He walked to the front of the room, turned, and placed both hands on the small whiteboard propped behind him. The magnets from the pre-match talk still rested on it—Arsenal in red, Newcastle in black. But now it wasn't about theory. It was about adjustment. Reading the moment. Anticipating the shift.
Wenger's voice cut clean through the stillness.
"Well done."
He paused, let the silence stretch just enough.
"We controlled the tempo. We read their pressure well. We pressed back at the right times. And Francesco—"
The manager looked toward him.
"—magnifique. A perfect strike. You caught Elliot leaning. Very clever."
Francesco offered a quiet nod, just enough to acknowledge it without basking. It wasn't finished yet. He knew that. Wenger did too.
The Frenchman continued, pointing now toward the board. "But now, listen carefully. They will change. They must. One-nil is not a disaster for them. But they've been here before—they've been behind before. And they always respond with aggression."
He shifted one of the black magnets—Sissoko's, it seemed—closer to the red line representing Arsenal's back four.
"They'll push. Especially from the wings. Dummett and Janmaat will try to overlap and create width. Pérez will drift into channels. Mitrović will look to pin Koscielny or Van Dijk. And Tioté—he'll get more physical."
Flamini, toweling his hair, gave a knowing grunt. He'd felt a few of Tioté's "welcomes" already.
"So," Wenger said, tapping the board now, his voice lower. "Our job is to weather it. Win the second balls. Be smart in possession. No blind clearances—play through the pressure. Özil, Francesco—you'll need to help us transition. If we break their first wave, we can finish this game."
He let the board go and turned back to face them fully.
"I don't want panic. I want intelligence. This is our match to lose—don't give it back to them."
A beat of quiet.
Then he softened. Just a little.
"Let's finish the job."
The team nodded almost in unison, boots beginning to thump again on the tiled floor, shirts pulled on with renewed purpose. Francesco changed into a fresh, dry kit, the fabric still warm from the heater rack. He rewrapped the captain's armband and glanced over at Leah's message on his phone one last time, still lit on the home screen from earlier:
"That was the most ridiculous free kick I've ever seen. I might marry you for that alone."
He smiled, slipped the phone into his locker, and stood.
Game face. Second half.
As they emerged back into the cool January air, the stadium was humming. No longer simmering. It had boiled now, and the noise returned to them like waves crashing against the cliff-face of expectation.
The fans were alive. And so were Newcastle.
From the opening whistle of the second half, Wenger's prediction came to life with unnerving accuracy.
The visitors surged.
Pérez pressed high, nearly nicking the ball off Flamini in the opening minute. Janmaat flew down the right, drawing Monreal into a hurried clearance. And Mitrović, all elbows and muscle, pinned himself against Van Dijk like a street brawler looking for a scrap.
Sissoko began to dominate the right half-space, bullying his way past lines with those powerful strides. Twice in three minutes, he broke into dangerous positions—one ending with a blocked cross, the other forcing Čech into a low, diving punch to clear.
"Stay tight!" Koscielny barked, rallying the back line.
Van Dijk followed up with his own warning: "Don't let Mitrović turn!"
It was a storm now, just like Wenger said. But unlike Drenched Arsenal teams of the past—battered and bending under pressure—this side held.
They didn't drop deep. They held their line. They matched the tempo.
In the 49th minute, Wijnaldum threaded a ball through to Pérez, who slipped behind Monreal for a split second—but Koscielny slid across just in time, intercepting the cut-back.
Three minutes later, Tioté barreled through midfield and unleashed a rocket from 30 yards—straight into Flamini's ribs.
The Frenchman collapsed with the impact, wheezing, but popped back up like he'd just swallowed a tank of fire. "Ça suffit!" he snarled.
Francesco felt it too—that burning urge to fight back. But he didn't panic. Didn't chase shadows. Instead, he played smart. Held his position when he needed to. Dropped deep to offer an outlet. Waited for the moment.
And in the 54th, it nearly came.
A long ball cleared out of defense landed near the halfway line, and Kanté rose above two Newcastle midfielders to flick it forward. Özil pounced on the second ball, turned, and played a through pass down the right channel for Francesco to chase.
Janmaat was with him, shoulder to shoulder.
Francesco's legs churned over the turf, breath hissing between his teeth, eyes glued to the bouncing ball. He let it drop once, then twice—then toe-poked it forward and cut inside, using Janmaat's own momentum against him.
Edge of the box. Right foot cocked.
But Mbemba lunged in with perfect timing, a millisecond before Francesco could pull the trigger. The ball squirted away.
So close.
Back the other way, Newcastle countered.
Sissoko again. Pérez again.
But again, Arsenal held.
Čech, ice in his veins, collected another low cross with surgical calm. Bellerín, despite taking a knock earlier, raced back to cover Dummett's overlap, dispossessing him with a brilliant slide tackle that brought the crowd roaring to its feet.
Then came minute 60.
A turning point—not on the scoreboard, but in the rhythm.
Arsenal began to wrestle back control.
Kanté, the tireless engine, started winning everything. His intercepting runs, those bursts of telepathic anticipation, began to frustrate Newcastle's rhythm. Flamini supported with grit, plugging holes like a fireman in a sinking ship.
And then Francesco began to roam again.
From the left to the right. Deeper now, then bursting forward. A decoy run to pull a marker. A disguised backheel into Özil's path. A clipped pass to Theo down the wing.
They weren't just absorbing now—they were recalibrating.
In the 65th, Arsenal nearly doubled their lead.
Francesco dropped into the left half-space, collected from Monreal, and pinged a ball diagonally toward the opposite corner of the box. Walcott timed his run perfectly, met it on the volley—but Elliot, again, parried.
The rebound spilled out.
Özil raced onto it—but Tioté got there first, clattering both ball and man in the process.
No whistle. Groans from the Emirates. But play continued.
A hand went up from the technical area. Three fingers. Three changes.
Francesco saw it first out of the corner of his eye—Wenger signaling to Steve Bould, who turned and shouted toward the bench. The fourth official was already reaching for his board, digits clicking into place.
Change was coming.
Theo Walcott trotted over to the far side, sweat shimmering on his neck as he gave the crowd a small clap before jogging toward the bench. Flamini followed shortly after, giving Koscielny a hard slap on the back as he passed.
Van Dijk lingered a little longer. Not hurt. Just spent.
And into the breach stepped fresh legs.
Oxlade-Chamberlain first—pacing the touchline like a greyhound itching to chase. Then Aaron Ramsey, his shirt tucked with quiet precision, chewing at the collar as he waited for the whistle. Lastly, the unmistakable silhouette of Per Mertesacker, long-limbed and granite-faced, stepping into the light like a veteran knight summoned back to the field.
The board went up:
WALCOTT ⬅️ CHAMBERLAIN
FLAMINI ⬅️ RAMSEY
VAN DIJK ⬅️ MERTESACKER
Francesco gave a short nod toward Ramsey as he passed by. "Solid. Get on the ball."
Ramsey bumped his fist quickly. "Let's kill it."
The structure shifted immediately. Mertesacker slotted into the backline with Koscielny. Ramsey settled next to Kanté in the double pivot. Chamberlain pushed out right, giving Arsenal a new wide outlet with more dribbling and chaos in his boots than Theo had offered.
But they weren't the only ones moving their pieces.
Steve McClaren, standing with arms folded and brow furrowed, signaled to the fourth official just seconds later. Two new names. Two new problems.
Colback and Tioté off.
Thauvin and Siem de Jong on.
A bold reshuffle—more technical ability, more intent. Thauvin would bring trickery and pace. De Jong, composure and vision from midfield. Clearly, McClaren was done waiting. He wanted to force the issue.
And for a few minutes, Newcastle had wind in their sails again.
Thauvin wasted no time trying to rattle Monreal—darting inside and dragging the Spaniard with him before laying off a clever ball to Pérez, whose shot flashed wide.
De Jong, meanwhile, offered something else entirely. He dropped into pockets behind Kanté and tried to dictate the tempo, playing with a calm Francesco recognized immediately.
But the changes worked both ways.
Ramsey, crisp and clever, began threading short passes to relieve pressure. Chamberlain offered a chaos factor, taking on Dummett at every opportunity, his dribbles always a heartbeat away from creating something dangerous. And Mertesacker—ever the calm sentinel—steadied the back line with an authority only age and games could grant.
The balance was tipping again.
Francesco adjusted his armband and took a long breath as Arsenal won a corner in the 72nd minute.
He jogged over to take it, nodding toward the box where Giroud, Koscielny, Mertesacker, and Ramsey were gathering. He could feel the moment coiling like a spring.
He placed the ball gently on the arc. Özil stood nearby, ready for the short option if needed.
Francesco looked up.
The box was a mosh pit—black and white stripes jostling against red, arms pulling, shirts tugging, boots scraping turf.
He raised his arm.
Whipped it in.
It wasn't the best delivery.
Too flat. Too fast. It zipped over the heads of the near-post runners and was half-cleared by Janmaat, slicing off his boot and bouncing loose inside the box.
Chaos.
The ball bobbled—half-volleyed into Ramsey's shins. It popped up again.
Then Giroud—ever the fox in the six-yard box—reacted first.
Instead of turning to shoot, he spotted Koscielny's run, unmarked at the back post.
Giroud twisted.
Crossed.
And Koscielny—face like stone, eyes wide, arms flared for balance—lunged forward.
Bang.
Right boot through leather. Net rippled.
The Emirates erupted again.
GOAL!
Arsenal 2 – 0 Newcastle (72')
Laurent Koscielny (assist: Olivier Giroud)
Francesco punched the air before leaping into the huddle. Giroud grinned like a man who'd just won a bar bet. "I see things, mon capitaine," he beamed.
"Bloody magician," Ramsey muttered, clapping him on the back.
Koscielny didn't smile. He never did much. But his eyes gleamed with fire, and that was enough.
They returned to halfway with shoulders high.
The scoreboard confirmed it:
ARL 2 - 0 NEW (72')
Now, they were in command.
And Newcastle knew it.
With a two-goal cushion, Arsenal didn't drop into a shell.
No—this side kept playing.
Ramsey found pockets. Özil began to drift again, his passes like scalpels through meat. Chamberlain turned Dummett inside-out on the flank and let fly from distance—forcing another save from Elliot, who by now must've felt like he was trying to plug holes in a collapsing dam.
But most tellingly, Francesco shifted his role.
He began orchestrating.
Not always the most glamorous touches—sometimes it was just a simple triangle with Kanté and Bellerín, or a shielding hold-up under pressure—but everything he did screamed of control.
"Don't rush it," he barked after a fast break fizzled. "Let them chase."
The team listened.
Wenger stood silent on the sideline, arms crossed, watching like a chess master seeing the final pieces fall into place.
Newcastle huffed. They puffed. But they didn't find much more.
Mitrović, isolated now, grew frustrated—throwing his arms when passes didn't reach him. Thauvin had one more run at Monreal but was shepherded out. De Jong tried a long shot. Wide.
Čech didn't even flinch.
In the 85th, Chamberlain nearly made it three—cutting in from the right and unleashing a rising rocket that skimmed the top of the netting.
The Emirates crowd rose in ovation anyway.
Emirates Stadium – January 3, 2016
87th Minute
The air had taken on a different quality now—not the dense, tight tension of the first half, but something looser. Something electric. The kind of atmosphere where everything feels on the brink of snapping open, of erupting one last time.
Arsenal had control. The kind of control that suffocates, that frustrates. Newcastle were chasing ghosts now—Kanté darting between passing lanes like a pickpocket, Ramsey playing passes with the calm of a man on a Sunday stroll, and Özil… Özil floating, slicing through space and rhythm with every elegant flick of his foot.
But it was Francesco who had grown into the maestro.
He no longer played the game; he conducted it.
Every time he touched the ball, the Emirates held its breath—because there was a hum to his movement, a rhythm to the way he peeled into space, checked his shoulder, let the ball roll across his body just enough to bait a defender before releasing it elsewhere.
And then, in the 87th minute, the moment came.
It began innocently enough—an interception by Mertesacker near the halfway line. Newcastle had tried to push numbers forward again, maybe for pride, maybe for hope. But Per read the lazy pass like a schoolteacher spotting a cheat sheet, stepping up and prodding it into Ramsey's stride.
Ramsey didn't hesitate.
One touch.
Then another.
A diagonal ball to Özil, who had drifted right, pulling two black shirts with him.
Özil received it on the half-turn—head up immediately—and threaded a low pass into the central channel, splitting the now-panicked Newcastle midfield. The ball skidded toward the top of the box.
Francesco had already read it.
He ghosted into the space between Mbemba and Dummett, curling his run like a painter rounding a stroke of red, letting the pass arrive just where he needed it—outside of his right boot, inside the box.
No hesitation.
Not this time.
One touch to settle. The second to strike.
Low. Driven. Across goal.
Rob Elliot barely moved.
The ball slammed against the inside of the left post and ricocheted into the net with a thud that set the stadium ablaze.
GOAL!
Arsenal 3 – 0 Newcastle (87')
Francesco Lee (brace)
Assist: Mesut Özil
The crowd exploded. Not just in volume, but in joy. The kind of joy that rises from seeing a player in perfect tune with the game. A brace. A performance. A statement.
But Francesco wasn't done.
As the ball bounced back from the net and rolled across the goal line, he turned, sprinting toward the corner flag—arms stretched, but not for the crowd.
For her.
He slowed as he reached the sideline, right beneath the VIP box.
And then came the celebration.
He formed a heart with his fingers—slowly, deliberately—and raised it high. Then he kissed his wrist—her name inked faintly there—and pointed skyward before tapping his chest twice and blowing a kiss.
The camera followed every motion.
Leah, behind the glass, had her hands clasped against her mouth, eyes wide and shimmering. The moment wasn't lost on her. Not at all.
Francesco locked eyes with her.
No words needed.
It was theirs.
Behind him, Ramsey was the first to crash into him, laughing. "Oh, come on, mate—if you score a hat trick next, are we all invited to the wedding?"
"Depends," Francesco smirked, breathless, grinning. "You bringing a gift?"
Özil wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "You owe me dinner for that pass."
"I'll cook for you."
Giroud arrived with a mock bow. "To our captain! The prince of North London!"
Francesco rolled his eyes, shaking his head, but the laughter bubbled out of him. He couldn't help it.
Back to the center circle. The scoreboard above them glowing like a crown:
ARSENAL 3 – 0 NEWCASTLE
The job was done.
Three points. Top of the table still theirs. And Francesco? On a night of cold breath and white floodlights, he'd warmed the entire stadium.
But it wasn't just about goals.
It was about what they meant.
That this Arsenal side had grown teeth. Had grown composure. That Francesco wasn't just wearing the captain's armband—he was earning it.
And as the crowd sang, as the final minutes ticked down, he allowed himself one last glance toward the glass box where Leah stood, now joined by a few others, all applauding.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 28
Goal: 40
Assist: 6
MOTM: 4
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9