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And Cheddar still sitting proudly in the passenger seat as though he personally had won the Ballon d'Or.
The next day arrived beneath heavy gray skies.
Typical London weather.
Cold.
Cloudy.
Threatening rain without ever fully committing to it.
The sort of evening that somehow felt perfect for cup football.
Especially a semi-final.
Especially Chelsea against Arsenal.
Especially at Stamford Bridge.
By late afternoon, Arsenal's team bus was already making its way through West London traffic.
The atmosphere inside was noticeably different from a Premier League matchday.
Not relaxed.
Not tense.
Somewhere in between.
Focused.
Professional.
Controlled.
Because everyone understood the importance of the occasion.
This wasn't the Premier League.
This wasn't the Champions League.
This was the Carabao Cup.
And Arsenal were only two matches away from Wembley.
Only two matches away from another final.
Only two matches away from another trophy.
Those opportunities were never ignored.
Not by Arsène Wenger.
Not by this squad.
Not by anyone.
Francesco sat several rows back on the bus, headphones resting around his neck rather than over his ears.
Music wasn't really holding his attention today.
Instead, he found himself watching the passing streets through the window.
Traffic lights.
Crowds.
Shops.
Supporters occasionally spotting the Arsenal bus and raising scarves.
The usual sights before a London derby.
Across from him sat Virgil van Dijk.
The Dutch defender looked exactly as he always did before matches.
Calm.
Almost suspiciously calm.
Like somebody heading to dinner rather than a cup semi-final.
Francesco glanced toward him.
"You ever get nervous?"
Van Dijk looked up from his phone.
"About what?"
"The match."
The defender considered it.
"Not really."
"That isn't normal."
"Probably not."
Then Van Dijk smiled.
"I get excited."
"Not nervous."
"There's a difference."
Francesco nodded.
That made sense.
Nearby, Kyle Walker was already talking.
Again.
Naturally.
The right-back had somehow spent the entire journey switching between football, cars, movies, food, and a completely unrelated discussion about whether penguins could survive in London.
Nobody knew how the conversation had reached penguins.
Not even Walker.
Yet somehow it had.
Robertson eventually rubbed his forehead.
"How do you think of these things?"
Walker looked offended.
"It's a gift."
"It's a problem."
"It can be both."
Nobody disagreed.
Further forward, Wenger sat quietly with his coaching staff.
Occasionally discussing tactical details.
Occasionally reviewing notes.
The manager looked exactly as he always did before important matches.
Composed.
Thoughtful.
Observant.
Nothing about his expression suggested anxiety.
Nothing suggested concern.
Just preparation.
Pure preparation.
About twenty minutes before arrival, Wenger finally stood.
Immediately conversations quieted.
Players looked up.
Attention shifted naturally toward the manager.
"Gentlemen."
Silence settled.
The Frenchman glanced around the bus.
"We know what this match is."
Nobody needed reminding.
A semi-final.
Chelsea away.
First leg.
Important.
Very important.
"We must be intelligent."
His voice remained calm.
Controlled.
"Two matches decide who goes to Wembley."
"This is only the first."
The players listened carefully.
"We have rotated the squad."
Another truth.
A necessary truth.
The schedule had been relentless.
Christmas.
New Year.
League matches.
Cup matches.
Travel.
Recovery.
Football never stopped.
Rotation was essential.
Not optional.
The lineup reflected that reality.
David Raya would start in goal.
A rare opportunity.
A deserved opportunity.
The back four would consist of Nacho Monreal on the left, Shkodran Mustafi and Rob Holding centrally, with Héctor Bellerín on the right.
A solid defensive unit.
Experienced enough.
Talented enough.
In midfield, Aaron Ramsey and Jack Wilshere would operate deeper.
The return of Wilshere generated genuine excitement throughout the squad.
The midfielder had worked incredibly hard to return from injury.
Everyone knew it.
Everyone respected it.
Ahead of them, Santi Cazorla would pull the strings.
The little Spaniard smiled quietly when Wenger mentioned his name.
Typical Santi.
No drama.
Just football.
On the wings, Alex Iwobi and Theo Walcott would provide pace and movement.
And leading the line?
Olivier Giroud.
The French striker simply nodded.
Ready.
Prepared.
Focused.
Francesco himself would begin on the bench.
A decision Wenger had already explained.
Recovery.
Rotation.
The second leg.
The league.
Everything had to be considered.
Francesco understood.
Of course he wanted to play.
Every footballer wanted to play.
But he trusted Wenger completely.
The manager always looked at the bigger picture.
Always.
"We must leave Stamford Bridge with a result."
Wenger continued.
"A draw."
"A victory."
Either would be valuable."
His eyes moved around the bus.
"Play with courage."
"Play with discipline."
"And trust each other."
Simple.
Effective.
Very Wenger.
The bus rolled onward.
And not long afterward, Stamford Bridge appeared.
The sight immediately sharpened everyone's focus.
The historic stadium stood beneath the darkening sky.
Floodlights already illuminated the surroundings.
Supporters streamed toward the entrances.
Chelsea blue mixed with Arsenal red.
Police presence everywhere.
Security everywhere.
The unmistakable atmosphere of a London derby.
The players disembarked.
Headphones.
Training bags.
Focused expressions.
The usual routine.
Yet beneath the routine sat anticipation.
Excitement.
The feeling every footballer experienced before big matches.
Inside the stadium, preparations accelerated.
Warmups.
Team talks.
Final instructions.
And then eventually…
Kickoff.
The opening whistle echoed around Stamford Bridge.
Instantly the intensity arrived.
No feeling-out period.
No cautious beginning.
No gradual build-up.
Chelsea against Arsenal rarely worked that way.
Both teams attacked immediately.
Both teams pressed aggressively.
Both teams looked determined to seize control.
The pace was fierce from the very first minute.
Challenges flew in.
Midfield battles erupted everywhere.
Possession changed hands constantly.
The crowd responded to every tackle.
Every interception.
Every attack.
From the bench, Francesco watched closely.
The match already felt like a chess game being played at one hundred miles per hour.
Chelsea enjoyed several early moments.
Hazard drifted between lines.
Willian looked dangerous.
Pedro's movement caused problems.
Yet Arsenal defended superbly.
Holding looked composed.
Mustafi was aggressive.
Monreal's positioning remained excellent.
And whenever danger increased…
David Raya was there.
The Spanish goalkeeper produced an outstanding save after fifteen minutes.
Hazard suddenly found space near the edge of the box.
One touch.
Then a curling effort toward the far corner.
The shot looked destined for the net.
Until Raya exploded across goal.
Fingertips.
Just enough.
The ball flew around the post.
Chelsea supporters groaned.
Arsenal players applauded.
Francesco immediately stood from the bench.
"Brilliant, David!"
The goalkeeper raised a hand.
Acknowledgement.
Nothing more.
The match continued.
Chelsea attacked.
Arsenal responded.
Neither side willing to retreat.
Neither side willing to surrender initiative.
Twenty-two minutes.
Arsenal created their first major opportunity.
And it nearly produced the opening goal.
Wilshere won possession in midfield.
A reminder of everything Arsenal had missed during his absence.
The Englishman drove forward confidently.
One challenge beaten.
Then another.
Before slipping the ball toward Cazorla.
The Spaniard immediately spotted Giroud.
The pass arrived perfectly.
Giroud controlled brilliantly.
Turned.
Shot.
The Stamford Bridge crowd collectively held its breath.
The strike was powerful.
Accurate.
Heading toward the bottom corner.
But Thibaut Courtois somehow reached it.
The Belgian stretched full length.
One enormous hand pushing the ball away.
An extraordinary save.
Even Giroud shook his head.
He thought it was in.
So did everyone else.
Minutes later Arsenal threatened again.
This time Walcott.
Bellerín surged forward down the right.
A familiar sight.
The full-back delivered a dangerous cross.
Walcott met it first time.
Clean contact.
Excellent movement.
The finish looked perfect.
Again Courtois intervened.
Again the Belgian goalkeeper denied Arsenal.
Again Stamford Bridge breathed a sigh of relief.
On the Arsenal bench, Wenger applauded.
Not because the chances had been missed.
Because the chances were being created.
That mattered.
A lot.
The match settled into a fascinating rhythm.
Chelsea looked dangerous.
Arsenal looked dangerous.
Yet neither defense blinked.
Neither goalkeeper blinked.
Every attack met resistance.
Every opportunity faced a response.
The tactical battle grew increasingly intense.
Ramsey covered enormous ground.
Wilshere looked sharper with every minute.
Cazorla controlled possession beautifully.
Holding continued impressing.
Raya remained excellent.
At one point Pedro escaped behind the defense.
Only for Mustafi to produce a perfectly timed challenge.
Minutes later Hazard appeared ready to shoot.
Holding blocked him.
Then Monreal cleared.
Then Ramsey recovered the second ball.
Every Arsenal player contributing.
Every Arsenal player fighting.
The first half moved quickly because of the intensity.
Neither side allowed the other comfort.
Neither side allowed easy possession.
Every yard felt earned.
Every pass contested.
Every moment competitive.
By the thirty-fifth minute, even the crowd seemed exhausted.
The noise never disappeared.
But the tension increased.
Because everyone sensed the same thing.
One goal might decide everything.
One mistake.
One moment.
One opportunity.
That was all it would take.
Yet the breakthrough never arrived.
Chelsea continued pushing.
Arsenal continued responding.
Raya made another save.
Courtois matched him at the opposite end.
Defenders threw themselves into blocks.
Midfielders chased relentlessly.
For forty-five minutes the football remained fierce.
Aggressive.
Entertaining.
High quality.
And somehow…
Goalless.
Eventually the referee checked his watch.
One final glance around the pitch.
Then blew for halftime.
Chelsea 0-0 Arsenal.
The Arsenal players walked toward the tunnel breathing heavily.
The pace had been relentless.
The physical demands enormous.
Yet there was satisfaction too.
Because they were in the game.
Fully in the game.
Inside the away dressing room, players immediately grabbed water bottles.
Some sat quietly.
Others discussed moments from the half.
Giroud replayed the chance Courtois had saved.
Again.
And again.
And again.
"The first touch was perfect."
"It was."
"The finish was good."
"It was."
"The goalkeeper was annoying."
That earned several laughs.
Even Wenger smiled slightly.
Eventually the manager moved toward the center of the room.
Instantly conversations faded.
The dressing room settled.
Attention focused.
Wenger waited a moment.
Then began.
"I like many things I have seen."
A promising start.
The players listened carefully.
"We are disciplined."
"We are organized."
"We are creating opportunities."
He pointed toward Giroud.
"You should have scored."
Giroud nodded.
"I know."
The manager smiled.
"That means the movement was correct."
A few players chuckled.
Trust Wenger to find encouragement inside a missed chance.
Then his expression became more serious.
"But we must be better."
The room sharpened.
"We cannot waste transitions."
"We cannot rush the final pass."
He pointed toward the tactical board.
Chelsea's shape.
Arsenal's shape.
Spaces.
Movements.
Details.
The small details that often decided semi-finals.
"When we recover possession, move the ball faster."
"Use the spaces behind their midfield."
"Santi."
Cazorla looked up.
"Continue finding pockets."
The Spaniard nodded.
"Jack."
Wilshere straightened slightly.
"You are doing well."
A brief smile appeared on the midfielder's face.
"Keep demanding the ball."
Then Wenger looked around the room.
Every player.
Every face.
Every position.
"We leave here tonight with something."
His voice remained calm.
Firm.
Certain.
"A draw."
"A victory."
We do not leave empty-handed."
The words hung in the air.
Powerful because of their simplicity.
This wasn't about chasing glory recklessly.
This wasn't about forcing the match.
This was about intelligence.
Discipline.
Patience.
Understanding that semi-finals lasted one hundred and eighty minutes.
Not ninety.
"We remain compact."
"We remain brave."
"And when the opportunity arrives…"
He paused.
A small smile appearing.
"We take it."
The players nodded.
Belief remained strong.
The match was there.
Waiting.
Balanced on a knife edge.
The dressing room remained quiet for several moments after Wenger finished speaking.
Not silent.
Never silent.
The sounds of football still existed.
Boots shifting against the floor.
Water bottles being opened.
Athletic tape being adjusted.
Heavy breathing slowly returning to normal.
But beneath those sounds sat something important.
Belief.
Not loud belief.
Not emotional belief.
The calm kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind successful teams carried into difficult stadiums.
Chelsea had not overwhelmed them.
Chelsea had not controlled them.
Chelsea had not intimidated them.
After forty-five fiercely contested minutes, the match remained exactly where Arsenal wanted it.
Balanced.
Waiting.
One moment away from changing.
Wenger looked around the room one final time.
"We stay patient."
Several players nodded.
"We do not force the game."
Another nod.
"The opportunity will come."
His eyes moved across the squad.
"And when it comes, we are ready."
That was all.
No dramatic speech.
No shouting.
No theatrical motivation.
Just trust.
The same trust that had carried Arsenal through countless important matches.
The same trust that had helped them win the Premier League.
The same trust that made players follow Wenger into difficult situations without hesitation.
Eventually the players rose.
Shirts adjusted.
Boots tightened.
Final drinks taken.
Then one by one they headed back toward the tunnel.
Back toward Stamford Bridge.
Back toward ninety minutes becoming forty-five.
Back toward a semi-final waiting for a winner.
The cold January air greeted them immediately as they emerged from the tunnel.
The floodlights shone brilliantly against the darkening London sky.
Chelsea supporters filled the stands with noise.
Arsenal's away section answered them instantly.
Red and white scarves bounced behind one goal.
Songs echoed around the stadium.
The atmosphere felt heavier now.
More important.
Because everyone knew the next goal could decide the evening.
The referee checked both assistants.
A whistle followed.
And the second half began.
Immediately Arsenal looked slightly different.
Not more aggressive.
Not reckless.
Just more deliberate.
The instructions from Wenger were obvious.
Keep possession.
Stay compact.
Wait for the opportunity.
Chelsea remained dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Antonio Conte's side understood exactly what was at stake.
They pushed forward whenever possible.
Attempting to use the pace and intelligence of their attacking players.
Morata worked tirelessly between the center-backs.
Hazard drifted everywhere.
Sometimes left.
Sometimes central.
Sometimes appearing in positions that seemed physically impossible.
Trying to track him felt like trying to catch smoke.
Meanwhile Marcos Alonso and Victor Moses continued charging forward from the wings.
Providing width.
Providing crosses.
Providing constant problems.
On the Arsenal bench, Francesco watched carefully.
Every movement.
Every transition.
Every tactical adjustment.
The game had become increasingly strategic.
Chelsea controlled possession for several spells.
But Arsenal remained disciplined.
Mustafi won aerial duels.
Holding continued playing with remarkable maturity.
Monreal read danger brilliantly.
Bellerín recovered possession repeatedly.
And whenever Chelsea found a shooting opportunity as David Raya was there again.
In the fifty-third minute Hazard slipped through a narrow gap near the edge of the box.
One touch.
Then a quick shot.
Low.
Dangerous.
Accurate.
Raya reacted instantly.
Dropping to his right.
Strong hands.
No rebound.
No panic.
The Arsenal supporters behind the goal erupted into applause.
The goalkeeper simply tossed the ball forward.
Business as usual.
A few minutes later Chelsea threatened again.
This time Morata.
Alonso delivered a dangerous cross from the left.
The Spanish striker escaped between Holding and Mustafi.
His header looked threatening.
Until it flew narrowly over the bar.
A collective exhale spread across the away end.
Close.
Very close.
On the touchline Wenger remained calm.
Arms folded.
Watching.
Thinking.
Waiting.
Because despite Chelsea's pressure, Arsenal still looked dangerous whenever they broke forward.
Ramsey continued covering enormous ground.
Cazorla dictated possession beautifully.
Wilshere looked stronger with every passing minute.
Months of injury frustration seemed to be disappearing.
Little by little.
Touch by touch.
Run by run.
The midfielder was enjoying himself.
And when Jack Wilshere enjoyed football, Arsenal usually benefited.
By the hour mark, Stamford Bridge had become increasingly tense.
Chelsea supporters sensed their team pushing.
Arsenal supporters sensed opportunities appearing.
Neither side felt comfortable.
Neither side felt safe.
The match remained balanced on a knife edge.
One mistake.
One pass.
One finish.
That was all it would take.
Then came the sixty-seventh minute.
And Arsène Wenger finally made his move.
The fourth official raised the electronic board.
Number 17.
Alex Iwobi.
Number 9.
Francesco Lee.
The away section erupted immediately.
Thousands of Arsenal supporters rising to their feet.
Applause echoed around Stamford Bridge.
Chelsea supporters responded with a mixture of groans and concern.
Because even when Francesco started on the bench, he remained dangerous.
Perhaps especially dangerous.
Fresh legs.
Fresh energy.
Fresh problems.
Iwobi jogged across and exchanged a quick handshake.
"Go win it."
Francesco smiled.
"I'll try."
Then he crossed the touchline.
The noise intensified instantly.
Football had a strange way of changing when certain players entered the pitch.
And Francesco was one of those players.
Wenger called him over immediately.
A brief final instruction.
"Left wing."
Francesco nodded.
"Stay wide initially."
Another nod.
"Then attack the spaces."
Simple.
Clear.
Perfectly understood.
A moment later he joined the action.
His first involvement arrived within seconds.
Ramsey found him near the touchline.
One touch.
Then another.
Testing the ball.
Testing the rhythm.
Testing the game.
The familiar sensation returned immediately.
The pace.
The intensity.
The adrenaline.
Everything felt natural.
Chelsea reacted carefully.
Victor Moses dropped deeper.
César Azpilicueta shifted across.
The respect Francesco commanded created space elsewhere.
Exactly as Wenger intended.
Minutes passed.
The match remained fiercely contested.
Chelsea attacked.
Arsenal responded.
The tension grew with every passing minute.
Every challenge felt significant.
Every possession mattered.
Every mistake threatened consequences.
Then came the seventy-eighth minute.
The moment.
The breakthrough.
The moment Wembley suddenly felt a little closer.
It began with Wilshere.
Appropriately.
The midfielder had been outstanding all evening.
And now he produced the decisive piece of quality.
Chelsea attempted to build from midfield.
Ramsey pressed aggressively.
A loose touch followed.
Wilshere reacted first.
Winning possession.
Driving forward immediately.
The crowd volume rose.
Chelsea defenders retreated.
Arsenal attackers surged forward.
Francesco instantly recognized the opportunity.
And ran.
Not toward the ball.
Into space.
The most dangerous run in football.
Wilshere spotted it immediately.
Of course he did.
Some players saw passes.
Great players saw movements before they happened.
Wilshere delivered the ball perfectly.
Splitting defenders.
Weighted beautifully.
Rolling into the left side of the penalty area.
Francesco accelerated.
One touch.
The crowd collectively inhaled.
Courtois rushed forward.
Trying to narrow the angle.
Trying to force a mistake.
Trying to save Chelsea.
But Francesco had already made his decision.
The second touch arrived.
Clean.
Precise.
Calm.
A finish across goal.
Low.
Accurate.
Unstoppable.
The ball flew beyond Courtois.
Beyond the desperate stretch of his arm.
Beyond the final defender racing back.
And into the far corner.
Goal.
For half a second Stamford Bridge froze.
Then the away section exploded.
Absolute chaos.
Pure joy.
Thousands of Arsenal supporters erupted simultaneously.
Scarves flying.
Arms raised.
Voices merging into one deafening roar.
Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag.
Adrenaline surging through every part of his body.
His teammates chased after him immediately.
Wilshere reached him first.
Naturally.
The assist belonged to him.
The moment belonged to both of them.
Jack launched himself forward.
Francesco nearly lost balance as the midfielder collided with him.
Then Ramsey arrived.
Then Bellerín.
Then Cazorla.
Then everyone else.
A pile of red shirts forming near the corner.
Celebrating.
Laughing.
Shouting.
Releasing nearly eighty minutes of tension.
In the away end, supporters sang his name.
Louder.
And louder.
And louder.
The sound echoed around Stamford Bridge.
Impossible to ignore.
Impossible not to feel.
Francesco finally looked toward the Arsenal fans.
Raised both arms.
And the noise somehow became even louder.
A semi-final.
An away goal.
A priceless goal.
One that might define the tie.
When play resumed, Chelsea immediately increased the pressure.
Conte barked instructions from the touchline.
The home side pushed numbers forward.
Searching desperately for an equalizer.
Searching desperately for momentum.
Searching desperately for hope.
But Wenger reacted quickly.
Intelligently.
The manager understood the moment.
Understood the opportunity.
And understood something else.
There were two very talented youngsters sitting on his bench.
Youngsters who needed experiences like this.
Moments like this.
Opportunities like this.
The board went up again.
Theo Walcott off.
Bukayo Saka on.
A teenager stepping into a Carabao Cup semi-final.
The Arsenal supporters applauded warmly.
A few minutes later another change followed.
Jack Wilshere's evening ended to a standing ovation from the away supporters.
And rightly so.
He had been magnificent.
Replacing him was another young talent.
Emile Smith Rowe.
Another academy graduate.
Another glimpse of Arsenal's future.
As Wilshere reached the sideline, Wenger stopped him briefly.
A hand on the shoulder.
A few quiet words.
The midfielder smiled.
Because he knew.
He knew how well he had played.
He knew how hard he had worked to return.
And he knew Arsenal now held the advantage.
The final minutes felt endless.
As they always did.
Chelsea attacked relentlessly.
Crosses flew into the box.
Corners followed.
Second balls became battles.
Every clearance mattered.
Every interception mattered.
Every tackle mattered.
The pressure intensified.
Yet Arsenal refused to break.
Mustafi headed everything away.
Holding continued producing performance after performance beyond his years.
Monreal remained flawless.
Bellerín sprinted tirelessly.
Ramsey covered impossible distances.
Saka worked fearlessly.
Smith Rowe chased every loose ball.
And Francesco tracked back constantly from the left.
Doing the ugly work.
The necessary work.
The work supporters sometimes overlooked.
Because protecting a lead required everyone.
Not just defenders.
Everyone.
In the eighty-seventh minute Chelsea created one final huge opportunity.
Hazard slipped free near the edge of the area.
The Belgian shifted the ball onto his right foot.
Shot.
The strike looked dangerous.
Very dangerous.
But once again David Raya saved.
A brilliant save.
Perhaps his best of the evening.
Strong hand.
Strong wrist.
Strong mentality.
The Arsenal bench exploded with applause.
Wenger included.
The goalkeeper deserved every second of it.
As the clock ticked into stoppage time, Stamford Bridge grew increasingly nervous.
Chelsea supporters sensed time disappearing.
Arsenal supporters sensed victory approaching.
The contrast was fascinating.
One side growing anxious.
The other growing louder.
Then finally the referee checked his watch.
One last glance around the pitch.
One last moment.
And then…
The whistle.
Full time.
Chelsea 0.
Arsenal 1.
For a second Arsenal's players simply stood there.
Breathing.
Processing.
Enjoying.
Then the celebrations began.
Not wild celebrations.
Not final celebrations.
Because the tie wasn't finished.
Everyone understood that.
There was still a second leg waiting at the Emirates.
Still ninety minutes to play.
Still work to do.
But this mattered.
A lot.
An away victory.
A clean sheet.
A first-leg advantage.
Exactly what Wenger had demanded.
Something.
They had not left Stamford Bridge empty-handed.
They had left with a win.
As players embraced each other across the pitch, Wenger allowed himself a small smile.
The kind that appeared only when a plan worked perfectly.
Rotation.
Trust.
Patience.
Discipline.
Everything had come together.
And standing near the away supporters, listening to thousands of Arsenal fans sing into the cold London night, Francesco couldn't help smiling too.
Because sometimes football rewarded patience.
Sometimes one chance was enough.
And tonight, under the floodlights of Stamford Bridge, one chance had carried Arsenal one step closer to Wembley.
______________________________________________
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, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 32
Goal: 39
Assist: 2
MOTM: 5
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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