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...
Chelsea would arrive at the Emirates believing they could change the story, while Arsenal would arrive believing the story wasn't finished yet.
The next day arrived with a different feeling.
Not nervousness.
Not anxiety.
Something else.
Anticipation.
The kind that settled deep inside a football club when everyone understood exactly what was at stake.
A place at Wembley.
A place in a final.
Ninety minutes standing between Arsenal and another opportunity to win silverware.
The Emirates Stadium seemed to feel it too.
Even from a distance.
As Arsenal's team bus rolled through North London beneath a cold January sky, supporters were already gathering outside the stadium.
Scarves wrapped tightly around necks.
Hot drinks in hand.
Groups of fans discussing lineups, predictions, and the endless Chelsea debate that had dominated the media all week.
Some supporters noticed the bus immediately.
Phones appeared.
Scarves were raised.
Applause followed.
The familiar matchday ritual.
Inside the bus, however, the atmosphere remained calm.
Focused.
Professional.
Exactly the way Wenger preferred it.
Francesco sat near one of the windows, headphones around his neck once again.
Music wasn't playing.
Today he preferred listening to the sounds around him.
Conversations.
Laughter.
The occasional joke.
The rhythm of teammates preparing for an important night.
Across the aisle, Robertson was already discussing something with Walker.
Unfortunately, nobody knew what.
Including Robertson.
"You can't seriously believe that."
Walker looked completely confident.
"I absolutely believe that."
"That's ridiculous."
"It's science."
"It's not science."
"It feels like science."
Van Dijk glanced over.
"It's definitely not science."
Walker looked betrayed.
"No support whatsoever."
"Correct."
The entire row laughed.
Even Wenger smiled briefly from further forward.
A rare sight on matchday.
Eventually the bus turned into the Emirates complex.
The stadium rose into view.
Massive.
Familiar.
Beautiful.
Home.
The moment players saw it, conversations naturally became quieter.
Because now it was real.
The preparation was over.
The analysis was over.
The waiting was over.
Now there was only football.
The players stepped off the bus one by one.
Cold air immediately greeted them.
Supporters gathered behind barriers cheered loudly.
Some shouted names.
Others simply applauded.
Everyone understood the importance of the occasion.
Francesco acknowledged a few supporters with a wave before following the squad inside.
The corridors beneath the Emirates carried a unique atmosphere on nights like these.
Busy.
Purposeful.
Everyone moving with intent.
Staff members.
Security personnel.
Coaches.
Players.
The entire machine operating together.
Soon Arsenal's squad arrived inside the dressing room.
Match kits hung neatly above each locker.
Boots arranged carefully.
Equipment prepared.
Everything exactly where it needed to be.
But first came warmups.
Players changed into training gear.
Tracksuits disappeared.
Training tops appeared.
Music played quietly through speakers.
The usual routine.
Comforting in its familiarity.
Francesco tied his boots while listening to snippets of conversation around him.
Giroud looked relaxed.
Ramsey looked focused.
Wilshere seemed eager.
The midfielder had gained confidence with every passing match.
Everyone could see it.
Eventually the squad headed toward the pitch.
The moment they emerged from the tunnel, noise immediately greeted them.
Thousands of supporters already filling seats.
Flags waving.
Songs echoing around the stadium.
The floodlights illuminated everything brilliantly.
The Emirates looked magnificent.
As it always did on important European and cup nights.
The players spread across the pitch.
Passing drills began.
Stretching.
Sprinting.
Shooting.
The familiar rhythm of preparation.
Francesco spent part of the warmup exchanging passes with Özil.
As always, the German somehow made impossible things look routine.
One touch.
Two touches.
Perfect weight.
Perfect timing.
Every pass arriving exactly where it needed to.
After one particularly ridiculous pass, Francesco shook his head.
"You enjoy showing off."
Özil smiled.
"I wasn't showing off."
"You absolutely were."
A slightly bigger smile appeared.
Which was basically an admission of guilt.
Nearby, Chelsea completed their own warmup.
Conte stood watching carefully.
His energy looked intense even from a distance.
Animated.
Passionate.
Constantly talking.
Constantly instructing.
The Italian understood what tonight meant.
Chelsea needed a result.
Chelsea needed goals.
Chelsea needed something to change.
Eventually the warmups ended.
Players applauded supporters.
Then headed back toward the tunnel.
Back toward the dressing rooms.
Back toward kickoff.
The atmosphere changed immediately upon re-entering the room.
The playful conversations faded.
Focus sharpened.
Final preparations began.
Training gear disappeared.
Match kits appeared.
Red shirts.
White sleeves.
The familiar Arsenal colors.
Players adjusted socks.
Wrapped tape.
Checked boots.
Performed little rituals developed over entire careers.
Some listened to music.
Some sat quietly.
Some talked.
Everyone prepared differently.
Eventually Wenger stood.
And instantly the room settled.
The manager waited until every eye focused on him.
Then he began.
"We stay with the same idea."
The tactical board stood behind him.
Chelsea's shape already displayed.
Arsenal's shape already arranged.
"We trust the team that earned the result at Stamford Bridge."
Several players nodded.
The rotation lineup would remain largely unchanged.
David Raya in goal.
Monreal.
Mustafi.
Holding.
Bellerín.
Ramsey.
Wilshere.
Cazorla.
Iwobi.
Walcott.
Giroud.
Francesco and Sánchez would begin on the bench.
A decision already explained earlier.
A decision everyone understood.
The tie lasted one hundred and eighty minutes.
Not ninety.
Squad depth mattered.
Trust mattered.
"We do not chase the game."
Wenger continued.
"We do not panic."
His gaze moved around the room.
"Chelsea must take risks."
"That creates opportunities."
Simple.
Clear.
Effective.
The players listened carefully.
Then Wenger folded his arms.
"If we defend together."
"If we attack intelligently."
"We will reach Wembley."
No dramatic speech.
No shouting.
Just belief.
The sort of belief Wenger always inspired.
Soon afterward the players rose.
Final handshakes.
Final encouragement.
Then they headed toward the tunnel.
The roar waiting outside sounded enormous now.
The referee led both teams onto the pitch.
Chelsea in blue.
Arsenal in red and white.
The Emirates standing.
The noise incredible.
The stakes obvious.
One place in the final.
One match to decide everything.
The referee checked his watch.
Looked toward both assistants.
Then blew the whistle.
The second leg began.
Immediately Chelsea looked exactly like everyone expected.
Aggressive.
Urgent.
Determined.
Conte had clearly delivered one message.
Attack.
The visitors pressed high from the opening seconds.
Hazard drifted dangerously between midfield and defense.
Pedro moved intelligently.
Morata worked tirelessly.
Alonso and Moses pushed forward constantly from the wings.
Chelsea weren't interested in patience.
They wanted an early goal.
And unfortunately for Arsenal…
They found one.
The ninth minute.
Pedro collected possession near midfield.
The Spaniard looked up.
Just once.
That was enough.
Hazard had already found space.
Again.
Somehow.
The Belgian received the pass in stride.
Turned smoothly.
Accelerated toward the penalty area.
Mustafi tried closing him down.
Holding shifted across.
But Hazard's feet moved too quickly.
One touch.
Then another.
Then a low finish.
The shot flew beyond Raya's reach.
Into the corner.
Goal.
For a moment the away supporters exploded.
Chelsea players sprinted toward the corner flag.
Conte punched the air furiously.
The aggregate score was level.
One-one.
The tie completely alive again.
On Arsenal's bench, Francesco leaned forward immediately.
Nobody panicked.
Not yet.
There was too much football remaining.
Still, Chelsea had achieved exactly what they wanted.
An early breakthrough.
The Emirates grew quieter.
Chelsea louder.
Momentum had shifted.
Now Arsenal needed a response.
And thankfully…
The response arrived quickly.
Six minutes later.
The fifteenth minute.
A set piece earned near Chelsea's penalty area.
Cazorla stood over the ball.
Calm.
Patient.
Scanning options.
The little Spaniard lifted the delivery beautifully.
Not too high.
Not too low.
Perfect.
Chelsea's defense reacted.
Giroud attacked the cross.
Mustafi attacked it too.
Chaos followed.
The ball bounced awkwardly inside the area.
Then fell kindly toward Monreal.
The left-back reacted instantly.
A quick strike.
Clean contact.
The ball flashed beyond Courtois.
Goal.
The Emirates erupted.
Pure relief.
Pure joy.
Monreal looked shocked for approximately half a second.
Then his teammates arrived.
Ramsey grabbed him first.
Giroud followed.
Soon red shirts surrounded the defender completely.
The aggregate advantage belonged to Arsenal once more.
Two-one.
The stadium found its voice again.
Loud.
Passionate.
Confident.
Exactly the atmosphere Chelsea had hoped to avoid.
On the touchline Wenger applauded calmly.
The perfect response.
No panic.
No drama.
Just football.
The match settled into a fascinating rhythm afterward.
Chelsea attacked.
Arsenal responded.
Neither side willing to surrender control.
Every passage of play felt important.
Every challenge mattered.
Every mistake carried consequences.
Hazard remained dangerous.
Constantly drifting into space.
Constantly demanding attention.
Morata battled relentlessly against Mustafi and Holding.
The striker never stopped moving.
Never stopped pressing.
Never stopped searching for opportunities.
At the opposite end, Giroud provided a constant outlet.
Holding possession.
Winning headers.
Creating problems.
The Frenchman worked tirelessly.
Wilshere looked increasingly influential as the half progressed.
The midfielder demanded the ball everywhere.
Turning.
Passing.
Driving forward.
Playing with the confidence that had slowly returned over recent weeks.
Cazorla orchestrated things beautifully beside him.
Every touch purposeful.
Every pass intelligent.
Watching him play football remained a privilege.
In the thirty-first minute Chelsea nearly equalized again.
Pedro found Alonso advancing down the left.
The wing-back delivered a dangerous cross.
Morata rose highest.
The header looked destined for the corner.
Until Raya intervened.
An outstanding save.
The goalkeeper launched himself across goal.
Strong hand.
Strong wrist.
The ball flew wide.
The Emirates erupted in appreciation.
David Raya immediately pointed toward his defenders.
Demanding concentration.
Demanding focus.
The match remained balanced on a knife edge.
A second Chelsea goal would change everything.
A second Arsenal goal would create breathing room.
Both teams knew it.
Both teams played accordingly.
Minutes continued disappearing.
The intensity never dropped.
Not for a second.
Then Arsenal threatened.
Wilshere slipped a clever pass toward Walcott.
The winger accelerated behind the defense.
One touch.
Then a shot.
Courtois reacted brilliantly.
The Belgian making another excellent save.
The rebound bounced loose.
Iwobi chased it.
Azpilicueta cleared desperately.
Chelsea survived.
Barely.
On the bench, Francesco exhaled.
That had been close.
Very close.
As halftime approached, fatigue slowly began appearing.
Not mistakes.
Just little signs.
Slightly heavier legs.
Slightly slower recoveries.
The natural consequence of a high-intensity semi-final.
Still neither team backed down.
Neither team retreated.
Both continued searching.
Continued believing.
Continued fighting.
Then finally the referee checked his watch.
One final attack.
One final clearance.
One final whistle.
Halftime.
Arsenal 1-1 Chelsea.
Aggregate: Arsenal 2-1 Chelsea.
Players immediately began making their way toward the tunnel.
Breathing heavily.
Sweat visible despite the cold evening.
The first half had demanded everything.
Physically.
Mentally.
Tactically.
Inside the dressing room, players collapsed onto benches.
Water bottles appeared immediately.
Some players sat quietly.
Others replayed moments aloud.
The familiar halftime routine.
Giroud shook his head.
"That chance…"
Walcott laughed.
"The one where Courtois became annoying again?"
"Exactly that one."
Several players smiled.
Even after an intense half, little moments of humor survived.
Eventually Wenger moved toward the center of the room.
And immediately conversations stopped.
Attention focused.
The manager waited a moment before speaking.
"We are where we wanted to be."
The players listened carefully.
Not comfortable.
Not safe.
But ahead.
Still ahead.
"We reacted well after conceding."
He nodded toward Monreal.
"Very well."
The defender received a few playful congratulations from teammates.
Then Wenger became more serious.
"But Chelsea will take more risks now."
Everyone understood.
Conte had no choice.
His team needed another goal.
Perhaps two.
That would create opportunities.
And dangers.
The manager pointed toward the tactical board.
"We must stay disciplined."
His marker moved across Chelsea's shape.
"Hazard."
Another circle.
"Pedro."
Another.
"Willian."
Every threat highlighted.
Every movement explained.
Every detail analyzed.
Then Wenger looked directly at his players.
"We do not lose our structure."
"We do not become stretched."
"We choose the right moments."
Heads nodded around the room.
Focused.
Determined.
Ready.
Then the dressing room remained locked in concentration as Wenger finished speaking.
Nobody needed reminding of the stakes anymore.
Not after everything that had happened over the previous two weeks.
Not after Stamford Bridge.
Not after the endless media discussions.
Not after hearing the word Wembley repeated a thousand times.
Every player knew exactly what stood in front of them.
Forty-five minutes.
That was it.
Forty-five minutes separating Arsenal from another cup final.
Forty-five minutes separating Chelsea from elimination.
The contrast created tension.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Just tension.
The healthy kind.
The kind that made football matter.
Wenger allowed the silence to settle for a moment.
Then looked around the room one final time.
"Stay together."
Simple.
Powerful.
The players nodded.
And one by one they rose from their seats.
Water bottles discarded.
Shirts adjusted.
Boots tightened.
Final preparations completed.
Soon they were walking back toward the tunnel.
Back toward the floodlights.
Back toward the noise.
Back toward the second half.
The Emirates greeted them with another enormous roar.
The crowd sensed the importance of every minute now.
Every tackle.
Every pass.
Every attack.
Everything felt amplified.
Because knockout football had a unique way of turning ordinary moments into significant ones.
The players took their positions.
Chelsea in blue.
Arsenal in red and white.
The referee checked both assistants.
Then blew his whistle.
The second half began.
Immediately the pattern became obvious.
Exactly as Wenger had predicted.
Exactly as Conte had planned.
Chelsea pushed forward aggressively.
Arsenal remained disciplined.
The visitors simply didn't have a choice.
One goal behind on aggregate.
Playing away from home.
Needing something to change.
Conte's players attacked with urgency.
Hazard drifted centrally again.
Willian searched for space.
Pedro moved constantly.
Alonso and Moses pushed high along both flanks.
Every Chelsea attack carried intent.
Every forward movement carried risk.
But Arsenal remained organized.
Holding and Mustafi continued their excellent partnership.
Monreal read danger brilliantly.
Bellerín's recovery pace erased several potentially dangerous situations.
And behind them all stood David Raya.
Calm.
Alert.
Reliable.
The goalkeeper's confidence seemed contagious.
Every save settled nerves.
Every catch reassured teammates.
Every command echoed authority.
The opening fifteen minutes of the half became a tactical battle.
Chelsea dominated possession.
Arsenal defended intelligently.
Waiting.
Watching.
Looking for opportunities.
Not forcing them.
Finding them.
Exactly as Wenger had instructed.
From the bench, Francesco watched carefully.
The match had slowed slightly compared to the frantic first half.
Not because intensity had disappeared.
Because caution had increased.
Every mistake felt more expensive now.
Every decision carried greater weight.
Then came the sixty-first minute.
And suddenly everything changed.
Again.
It started deep inside Arsenal's half.
Raya claimed a Chelsea cross confidently.
No rebound.
No uncertainty.
Just clean goalkeeping.
The Spaniard immediately rolled the ball toward Ramsey.
Quick thinking.
Quick transition.
Ramsey turned and released possession to Wilshere.
The midfielder carried the ball forward.
Drawing pressure.
Drawing defenders.
Drawing attention.
Then he found Iwobi.
The Nigerian winger received possession near the left touchline.
Immediately he accelerated.
One defender approached.
Iwobi skipped past him.
Another shifted across.
Still Iwobi continued moving.
The Emirates crowd began rising from their seats.
Something was developing.
Something dangerous.
Inside the penalty area, Giroud recognized it instantly.
The French striker adjusted his position.
One step.
Then another.
Creating separation.
Creating space.
Creating opportunity.
Iwobi looked up.
Saw the movement.
Delivered the cross.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
The ball curved beautifully through the air.
Right into Giroud's path.
The striker attacked it with complete conviction.
A powerful leap.
Clean contact.
Header.
Goal.
The ball flew beyond Courtois before the Belgian could react.
Straight into the net.
The Emirates exploded.
Pure eruption.
Pure joy.
Giroud sprinted toward the corner flag immediately.
Arms spread wide.
Shouting something nobody could hear above the noise.
His teammates arrived seconds later.
Ramsey first.
Wilshere second.
Then everyone else.
A sea of red shirts surrounding the Frenchman.
Celebrating.
Laughing.
Embracing.
The scoreline now read:
Arsenal 2-1 Chelsea.
Aggregate: Arsenal 3-1 Chelsea.
A two-goal cushion.
A massive advantage.
Inside the technical area Wenger applauded firmly.
Not wildly.
Never wildly.
But there was satisfaction in his expression.
The plan was working.
Again.
Chelsea now faced a mountain.
Conte knew it.
His players knew it.
The supporters knew it.
Two goals needed.
Away from home.
Against a team that rarely lost control once ahead.
Still, Chelsea refused to surrender.
To their credit, they continued attacking.
Conte barked instructions relentlessly from the touchline.
His arms seemed permanently in motion.
Pointing.
Shouting.
Encouraging.
Demanding.
The Italian wasn't interested in giving up.
Neither were his players.
Hazard remained dangerous.
Willian continued probing.
Pedro kept searching for openings.
But Arsenal's confidence had grown enormously.
Every successful tackle generated applause.
Every interception increased belief.
Every clearance felt significant.
The clock continued moving.
Sixty-five minutes.
Sixty-six.
Sixty-seven.
Chelsea attacked.
Arsenal absorbed.
Then countered.
The tie slowly began slipping away from the visitors.
At the seventy-first minute Wenger made his next move.
The fourth official raised the electronic board.
Three changes.
Three opportunities.
Three fresh pairs of legs.
The Emirates applauded immediately.
Giroud's number appeared first.
The Frenchman received a standing ovation.
Deservedly.
His goal might have decided the tie.
As he walked toward the touchline, supporters rose throughout the stadium.
Applauding.
Singing.
Showing appreciation.
Giroud acknowledged them with a raised hand.
Replacing him was Eddie Nketiah.
Young.
Fearless.
Academy product.
Hungry to impress.
The second change followed.
Theo Walcott departed.
Another strong performance completed.
In his place came Bukayo Saka.
Another academy youngster.
Another glimpse of Arsenal's future.
The teenager looked excited.
Nervous.
Proud.
Everything at once.
The final substitution brought even more applause.
Santi Cazorla departed.
The little magician receiving appreciation from every corner of the stadium.
Replacing him came Emile Smith Rowe.
Yet another academy talent.
Yet another young player receiving a huge opportunity.
Francesco smiled from the bench.
Wenger trusted youth.
Always had.
Always would.
Across the pitch Conte responded almost immediately.
His own substitutions reflected Chelsea's desperation.
Willian departed.
Ross Barkley entered.
Pedro came off.
Michy Batshuayi replaced him.
Victor Moses left.
Davide Zappacosta entered.
Fresh attackers.
Fresh energy.
Fresh hope.
Conte was throwing everything forward now.
The message couldn't have been clearer.
Attack.
Attack.
Attack.
The final twenty minutes became open.
Very open.
Chelsea pushed numbers forward.
Arsenal found space in transition.
Opportunities appeared at both ends.
Hazard forced another strong save from Raya.
At the opposite end, Nketiah nearly scored after racing behind the defense.
The match remained alive.
Not finished.
Not yet.
Then came the eighty-third minute.
A moment nobody inside the Emirates would ever forget.
Especially one young man wearing number 77.
The move began with Smith Rowe.
The youngster received possession near midfield.
Immediately he turned forward.
Positive.
Confident.
Fearless.
Exactly the way Wenger wanted his academy players to play.
The teenager carried the ball through space.
Chelsea defenders retreated.
Unsure whether to engage.
Unsure whether to wait.
That hesitation proved costly.
Because Smith Rowe spotted something.
A run.
A beautiful run.
Bukayo Saka accelerating into space.
The timing was perfect.
Smith Rowe released the pass.
Weighted beautifully.
Threaded perfectly between defenders.
Saka collected it without breaking stride.
Suddenly only Courtois remained.
The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
One touch.
Then another.
The teenager stayed composed.
Remarkably composed.
Beyond his years.
Courtois rushed forward.
Trying to close the angle.
Trying to force the mistake.
Trying to save Chelsea.
But Saka had already decided.
The finish arrived.
Low.
Precise.
Calm.
Beyond Courtois.
Into the far corner.
Goal.
For half a second nobody moved.
The moment almost felt unreal.
Then the Emirates exploded.
Absolutely exploded.
Noise crashed down from every stand.
Players sprinted toward Saka immediately.
The teenager looked stunned.
Completely stunned.
Arms raised.
Eyes wide.
Trying to process what had just happened.
His first professional goal.
His first Arsenal goal.
His first senior goal.
And it had arrived in a Carabao Cup semi-final.
At the Emirates.
Against Chelsea.
To practically send Arsenal to Wembley.
Meanwhile Smith Rowe was being mobbed as well.
Because that assist mattered.
His first official assist.
His first senior contribution.
A special moment for both young players.
The academy graduates embraced near the corner flag.
Surrounded instantly by teammates.
Ramsey arrived.
Bellerín arrived.
Holding arrived.
Even David Raya sprinted halfway across the pitch to celebrate.
On the touchline Wenger applauded warmly.
And unlike usual, there was a visible smile.
Not because of the scoreline.
Though that helped.
Because of the youngsters.
Because moments like these meant something to him.
Academy players succeeding.
Young talents growing.
Future stars emerging.
Those moments always mattered.
The giant screens flashed the updated score.
Arsenal 3-1 Chelsea.
Aggregate: Arsenal 4-1 Chelsea.
The tie was effectively over.
Conte knew it.
The Chelsea players knew it.
The supporters knew it.
Yet professionalism demanded they continue.
And they did.
The remaining minutes passed with Chelsea still trying.
Still attacking.
Still searching.
But Arsenal looked completely comfortable now.
Holding produced another excellent interception.
Mustafi won another aerial duel.
Monreal cleared danger.
Ramsey covered impossible distances.
The entire team worked together.
Every player contributing.
Every player committed.
The Emirates crowd sensed the outcome approaching.
Songs began echoing around the stadium.
Louder.
And louder.
And louder.
Wembley chants appeared.
Supporters bouncing in unison.
Enjoying the moment.
Celebrating early.
Not arrogantly.
Joyfully.
The sort of joy that came from seeing a team perform exactly as hoped.
Francesco remained on the bench.
Watching.
Smiling.
Applauding.
Sometimes football wasn't about individual moments.
Sometimes it was about the squad.
Tonight felt like one of those nights.
The rotation players had delivered.
The youngsters had delivered.
The entire team had delivered.
As stoppage time arrived, the atmosphere became festive.
Chelsea's resistance had faded.
Arsenal's confidence had grown.
The outcome no longer felt uncertain.
Only official.
Then finally the referee checked his watch.
One final glance around the pitch.
One final whistle.
And it was over.
Full-time.
Arsenal 3-1 Chelsea.
Aggregate: Arsenal 4-1 Chelsea.
For a brief moment the players simply stood there.
Breathing.
Smiling.
Processing.
Then celebrations began.
Not wild celebrations.
Not trophy celebrations.
There was still a final to play.
Still work to do.
Still another challenge waiting.
But reaching Wembley mattered.
It always mattered.
The Arsenal supporters remained inside the stadium long after the whistle.
Singing.
Cheering.
Celebrating together.
Players walked toward them.
Applauding.
Thanking them.
Sharing the moment.
Saka and Smith Rowe received particularly loud ovations.
The academy graduates looked overwhelmed.
And understandably so.
Across the pitch Wenger shook Conte's hand respectfully.
The Italian looked disappointed.
Frustrated.
But gracious.
Football worked that way sometimes.
One team celebrated.
One team reflected.
As Francesco stood alongside his teammates near the Arsenal supporters, he looked around the Emirates.
The floodlights.
The noise.
The smiles.
The red and white scarves.
Everything felt special.
A few weeks earlier, Wembley had seemed close.
Now it was real.
One more match.
One more opportunity.
One more trophy to chase.
And as thousands of Arsenal supporters continued singing into the cold North London night, one truth echoed through the stadium louder than anything else.
Arsenal's dominance over Chelsea wasn't ending tonight while instead, it had carried them all the way to a cup final.
______________________________________________
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: 35
Goal: 42
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