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...
They had created another unforgettable chapter in Arsenal's legacy.
For several long seconds after the final whistle, time seemed to lose its meaning.
The roar inside Wembley continued to roll around the stadium like thunder.
Arsenal players remained scattered across the pitch, each living the moment differently.
Holding sat on the grass with both hands covering his face, hardly believing what they had accomplished.
Mustafi stood with his hands on his hips before letting out a long breath and looking toward the sea of red and white behind one goal.
Monreal embraced Bellerín, both laughing as they tried unsuccessfully to say something over the deafening noise.
Ramsey simply closed his eyes.
Another final.
Another winner's medal.
Another memory.
Near the centre circle, Francesco was still surrounded by teammates.
Alexis grabbed him around the shoulders.
"You really couldn't wait until next season, could you?"
Francesco laughed.
"I didn't think anyone wanted extra time."
"I certainly didn't."
Giroud appeared from nowhere and wrapped both of them in another embrace.
"I'll forgive you for stealing my place."
"You'll survive."
"I suppose I will."
Saka joined them a moment later.
"So…"
Francesco looked at him.
"So?"
"My assist still counts."
Everyone burst into laughter.
"It definitely counts," Giroud replied before pointing toward the youngster.
"And don't let anyone forget it."
The mood remained wonderfully chaotic.
Staff members hugged one another.
Sports scientists who usually celebrated nothing more dramatic than positive recovery data suddenly found themselves jumping around like academy players.
The analysts who had spent days dissecting Manchester United's pressing triggers embraced each other after seeing every hour of preparation rewarded.
Wenger walked slowly across the pitch.
Players noticed him immediately.
One after another they came over.
Not because he had asked.
Because they wanted to.
Holding hugged him first.
Then Ramsey.
Then Giroud.
When Francesco reached him, neither spoke immediately.
The manager smiled first.
"You enjoyed coming off the bench."
Francesco smiled back.
"I had fresh legs."
"And excellent timing."
They shook hands.
Then Wenger gently pulled him into a brief embrace.
"I'm proud of every one of you."
Francesco answered quietly.
"We're proud we could do it for you."
The manager simply nodded.
Sometimes there were no better words.
Around them, television crews continued filming every reaction.
Photographers chased every smile.
Children in Arsenal shirts leaned over advertising boards hoping for one last wave.
Eventually, one of the club's operations staff approached.
"We need to head inside."
Nobody complained.
There was still one final chapter waiting.
The squad slowly walked together toward the tunnel.
As they disappeared beneath the stands, Arsenal supporters remained standing.
Thousands of scarves stayed raised above their heads.
The applause followed the players all the way into the tunnel.
Several players instinctively turned around one final time.
They clapped back.
Not because they felt obliged.
Because they genuinely wanted to thank the people who had travelled across the country to witness another unforgettable afternoon.
The familiar corridors beneath Wembley felt different now.
Before kick-off they had been filled with anticipation.
Now they echoed with laughter.
Someone began singing.
It was impossible to identify who started it.
Within seconds nearly everyone had joined.
Even members of the medical department found themselves singing between smiles.
The dressing room door opened.
Immediately another round of celebrations began.
Water bottles became harmless substitutes for champagne, spraying harmless arcs across the room.
Music finally appeared.
Not loud enough to drown conversations.
Just enough to accompany them.
Giroud walked directly toward Raya.
The French striker placed both hands on the goalkeeper's shoulders.
"You kept us alive."
Raya shook his head.
"We all defended."
Giroud refused to accept the answer.
"No."
"You gave us the chance to win."
Nearby, Mustafi approached Holding.
"We survived Lukaku."
Holding grinned.
"Barely."
"Barely still counts."
Bellerín dropped into his chair before removing one boot.
"I don't think my legs belong to me anymore."
Monreal laughed while unlacing his own.
"They'll come back tomorrow."
"I hope so."
Across the room, Saka sat quietly for a moment, still holding his winners' medal that had been handed to the players immediately after the match.
He kept turning it over in his hands.
Almost studying it.
Francesco noticed.
He walked over.
"You've looked at it about fifty times."
"I'm making sure it's real."
Francesco smiled.
"It is."
Saka looked up.
"I dreamed about Wembley."
"And?"
"It wasn't this loud."
Francesco laughed.
"No dream ever gets the noise right."
Gradually, the players began changing.
Match shirts soaked with effort were carefully removed.
Boots came off.
Tape disappeared from ankles.
The kit staff collected every jersey, knowing each one would become part of Arsenal history.
Waiting neatly inside every locker was another shirt.
Bright red.
Fresh.
Across the chest, in bold white lettering, stood a simple message.
FA Cup Winners
Beneath it was the number that meant everything.
14
One after another, the players pulled the commemorative shirts over their heads.
The dressing room instantly looked different.
No longer match-day uniforms.
Now they looked like champions.
Walker examined the front of his shirt.
"I like this one."
Alexis glanced across.
"Better than your suit."
"My suit looked excellent."
"It looked expensive."
"That's because it was."
Even Wenger smiled quietly at that exchange.
Members of the coaching staff changed into matching commemorative tops as well.
Steve Bould looked around the room.
"We clean up well."
"You've improved," Ramsey replied.
"Barely."
Laughter returned again.
The celebrations settled into something calmer.
More intimate.
Medical staff congratulated analysts.
Analysts thanked kit managers.
Ground staff who had travelled with the team shook hands with coaches.
Everyone understood something important.
This season had never belonged only to the players.
Every recovery session.
Every tactical meeting.
Every prepared meal.
Every washed training kit.
Every late-night video analysis.
Every small contribution had helped build this success.
Francesco stood near the middle of the room.
He looked around quietly.
"So many people…"
Walker followed his gaze.
"We've got a good club."
Francesco nodded.
"The best."
Several minutes passed.
The excitement never disappeared, but gradually another feeling took its place.
Expectation.
Everyone knew there was still one moment left.
The trophy.
The real presentation.
Nobody wanted to miss it.
Outside, Wembley staff completed the final preparations.
The presentation stage was being assembled.
Broadcast cameras changed positions.
Confetti cannons were tested.
Pyrotechnic crews performed final safety checks.
Inside the dressing room, players waited patiently.
Giroud checked the corridor twice.
"Are they ready yet?"
A member of the operations staff smiled.
"Not yet."
"How long?"
"A few more minutes."
Giroud sighed dramatically.
"This is torture."
"It'll be worth it."
"It had better be."
Another five minutes passed before there was a knock at the dressing-room door.
The conversations stopped almost instantly.
An official from the Football Association stepped inside wearing an accreditation lanyard and a warm smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
He looked around the room.
"Congratulations."
A ripple of applause followed.
He smiled again.
"We're ready for you."
Nobody needed another invitation.
Players stood almost immediately.
Staff collected themselves.
The entire travelling party gathered together.
Wenger waited until everyone was present.
Then he spoke quietly.
"We walk together."
No speeches.
No dramatic words.
Only one sentence.
Because it perfectly represented the season.
Together.
The dressing-room door opened once more.
The Arsenal delegation stepped into Wembley's famous corridors.
Players.
Coaches.
Physiotherapists.
Sports scientists.
Analysts.
Kit managers.
Medical staff.
Operations personnel.
Everyone who had helped carry Arsenal to this point.
As they walked, the sound grew louder with every step.
Supporters had not gone anywhere.
Quite the opposite.
Nearly every Arsenal fan remained inside Wembley.
Their songs echoed through the concrete corridors.
The closer Arsenal came to the pitch, the louder those voices became.
Then daylight appeared ahead.
The stadium opened before them once again.
It was magnificent.
Red-and-white scarves stretched across entire sections.
Massive Arsenal flags rippled high above the lower tier.
Confetti cannons stood positioned around an elegant presentation stage that had been built near the Royal Box.
Pyrotechnic towers waited silently.
Broadcast cameras surrounded the platform from every conceivable angle.
The supporters spotted the team.
The noise became almost overwhelming.
Every player looked toward the stands.
Many applauded instinctively.
Others simply smiled.
The atmosphere carried none of the tension from before kick-off.
Now it was pure celebration.
The Royal Box stood proudly above the presentation area.
Distinguished guests had already taken their places.
The famous silver FA Cup rested on its pedestal.
Its polished surface reflected the stadium lights.
Waiting.
One final time.
An announcer's voice echoed around Wembley.
"Ladies and gentlemen… your FA Cup winners… Arsenal!"
The roar shook the stadium.
Wenger was invited first.
The Arsenal manager exchanged a glance with Steve Bould.
"You first," Bould said.
"We all go."
Together, Wenger and every member of his coaching staff climbed the famous Wembley steps.
One by one they reached the dignitaries.
Warm handshakes.
Smiles.
Congratulations.
Each received a winners' medal before turning to applaud the players waiting below.
Steve Bould clapped harder than anyone.
"Soak it in!" he shouted.
Then came the squad.
One by one.
Holding climbed first.
Applause.
Handshake.
Medal.
Then Mustafi.
Monreal.
Bellerín.
Ramsey.
Wilshere.
Saka received one of the loudest ovations of the afternoon.
The youngster smiled shyly as he accepted his medal before joining his teammates on the platform.
Giroud bowed theatrically after receiving his medal, making several teammates laugh.
Alexis grinned from ear to ear.
Özil offered his usual quiet smile.
Raya paused for a brief second to admire the medal before walking across to the growing group of teammates.
Every player found their place around the empty space in the middle.
One position remained.
The captain.
The announcer allowed the anticipation to build.
"And finally…"
"…your Arsenal captain…"
"Francesco!"
The response was deafening.
Every Arsenal supporter rose to their feet.
Scarves lifted once again.
The applause seemed endless.
Francesco took one slow breath before beginning the climb.
Each step carried its own meaning.
The academy dreams.
The victories.
The setbacks.
The responsibility.
Everything had led here.
At the top of the steps stood Prince William.
The Prince smiled warmly as Francesco approached.
"Congratulations," he said, extending his hand.
"You've led your team magnificently."
"Thank you, Your Royal Highness."
Francesco accepted the handshake with genuine respect.
Then Prince William lifted the famous trophy from its pedestal.
For a brief moment, both men held it together.
Its weight was real.
Its history even greater.
Francesco accepted the FA Cup carefully with both hands.
He looked down at it for a second.
The silver gleamed beneath the Wembley lights.
He smiled.
Then turned.
His teammates were waiting.
He walked toward the centre of the platform.
Without a word, every Arsenal player moved closer.
Shoulder against shoulder.
Arms around one another.
A family.
Francesco looked once toward Wenger.
The manager nodded.
That was all.
The captain raised the trophy high above his head.
Wembley erupted.
Red-and-white confetti exploded into the London sky.
Pyrotechnics burst from both sides of the stage in brilliant columns of light.
The roar from more than eighty thousand people became almost indescribable.
Teammates leapt into the air around their captain.
Some shouted.
Some laughed.
Some simply screamed with joy.
The FA Cup gleamed above them as camera flashes illuminated every second from every angle.
Supporters sang louder than ever.
"Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!"
Photographers captured the image that would appear on front pages around the world.
Francesco holding the FA Cup aloft.
Surrounded by his teammates.
Confetti falling around them.
The number 14 proudly displayed across every commemorative shirt.
It was more than another trophy.
It was Arsenal's fourteenth FA Cup.
It was the completion of an unprecedented domestic treble.
It was the reward for months of sacrifice, discipline, belief and togetherness.
Then the final camera flashes gradually became less frequent.
Not because there were fewer memories left to capture.
Because everyone had finally begun to realise that the evening was gently moving toward its final chapter.
For more than an hour, Wembley had belonged almost entirely to Arsenal.
The songs had never stopped.
The laughter had carried from one end of the pitch to the other.
The silver FA Cup had passed through dozens of hands, appearing in photographs with players, coaches, families, children, club staff, and loved ones.
Now, almost imperceptibly, the atmosphere began to change.
Not into sadness.
Never that.
Into something quieter.
Something warmer.
The kind of contentment that only arrived after months of sacrifice had finally been rewarded.
High above the pitch, supporters slowly began gathering their belongings.
Scarves were folded carefully around necks.
Flags were rolled together.
Parents called children who had become fascinated by watching their heroes celebrate below.
Stewards politely guided spectators toward the exits section by section.
Yet even as they began leaving, nobody seemed eager to let the day end.
Another chorus echoed around the stadium.
"North London Forever…"
Thousands of voices joined together.
Players stopped their conversations almost instinctively.
Many turned toward the stands once more.
Francesco stood beside the FA Cup with Leah, Mike and Sarah when the song drifted across the stadium.
For several seconds none of them spoke.
They simply listened.
The sound carried a different meaning now.
Not encouragement.
Gratitude.
Francesco applauded the supporters once again.
His teammates followed.
Around the stadium, thousands of Arsenal fans answered by lifting scarves one final time before slowly disappearing into the concourses beneath Wembley.
Even while walking toward the exits, they continued singing.
The songs became softer.
More distant.
But they never truly disappeared.
It felt as though the stadium itself was reluctant to let them go.
Nearby, Giroud hugged his family before lifting one of his children onto his shoulders.
Ramsey kissed his wife before exchanging one final embrace with relatives who had travelled to witness another final.
Cazorla laughed as several younger family members insisted on touching the famous silver trophy one last time.
Everywhere across the pitch, similar scenes unfolded.
Football had always been a team game.
Moments like these reminded everyone that careers were family journeys too.
Eventually Francesco looked toward his parents.
"I suppose they're going to make us leave eventually."
Mike smiled.
"I imagine they will."
Sarah reached up and adjusted the slightly crooked winners' medal around his neck.
"You still manage to wear medals untidily."
"I've been celebrating."
"So I noticed."
She gently brushed a few remaining pieces of confetti from his shoulder.
It was such an ordinary gesture.
One she had probably done hundreds of times when he was younger.
Straightening a school shirt.
Adjusting a jacket.
Now she was doing it after an FA Cup Final at Wembley.
Some things never changed.
Mike extended his hand.
Francesco ignored it completely.
Instead he pulled his father into another hug.
"You really are proud, aren't you?"
Mike laughed quietly.
"I've been proud for a very long time."
"This trophy didn't change that."
"It just gave the world another reason to see what your mother and I already knew."
Francesco swallowed.
Those words meant more than any newspaper headline ever could.
Sarah embraced him again.
"Get some rest when you eventually can."
"I'll try."
"You won't."
"No."
They both laughed.
Leah stepped forward last.
"So…"
"So?"
"I suppose I'll see you at home."
Francesco nodded.
"Hopefully before midnight."
She smiled.
"I'll make sure there's something to eat."
"I love you."
"I know."
She kissed him gently once more before whispering,
"And congratulations, captain."
"You too, champion."
For another moment they simply looked at one another.
No dramatic farewell.
No grand speech.
Just the comfortable understanding that had always existed between them.
Finally Mike placed an arm around Sarah while Leah joined them.
The three began walking slowly toward the players' tunnel.
Halfway there, Sarah turned and waved.
Francesco raised his hand.
Mike gave him a thumbs-up.
Leah smiled over her shoulder.
Then they disappeared beneath the stands together.
Francesco watched until they were no longer visible.
Only then did he turn back toward his teammates.
Walker appeared beside him.
"You alright?"
Francesco smiled.
"Yeah."
Walker glanced toward the tunnel.
"Good family."
"The best."
Walker nodded.
"I figured."
One by one, Arsenal's players also began saying their goodbyes.
The pitch gradually belonged only to football people once again.
Photographers packed away equipment.
Television presenters delivered their final broadcasts.
Ground staff quietly began removing temporary barriers from around the presentation stage.
Eventually an operations coordinator approached Wenger.
"We're ready whenever you are."
The manager nodded.
He looked toward his players.
"Time to head inside."
Nobody argued.
They had learned throughout the season that Wenger somehow always knew when one chapter had reached its natural conclusion.
The Arsenal delegation walked together toward the tunnel once more.
The famous FA Cup travelled in Francesco's hands.
Again.
The supporters who still remained applauded them all the way beneath the stands.
Inside the familiar Wembley corridors, the noise became softer.
Footsteps replaced chants.
Conversation replaced celebration.
The dressing-room door opened.
Almost immediately the room felt welcoming again.
The FA Cup was carefully placed on a large table in the middle of the room.
Without anyone saying a word, it naturally became the centre of attention.
Players settled into chairs.
Someone restarted the music.
Not nearly as loud as before.
Now it served as background rather than soundtrack.
The atmosphere became wonderfully relaxed.
Holding leaned back with both feet stretched out.
"I don't think I'm moving for a week."
Mustafi looked at him.
"You'll be in recovery tomorrow."
"I've suddenly developed an injury."
"What kind?"
"Laziness."
The room laughed.
Across from them, Saka sat quietly staring at his medal again.
Alexis nudged him.
"You know it won't disappear."
"I'm still checking."
Giroud walked over carrying the FA Cup.
"Here."
Saka blinked.
"What?"
"Hold it."
The youngster hesitated before accepting the famous trophy with remarkable care.
For a moment he simply stared at it.
"I used to watch this on television."
"And now?"
"I'm trying not to drop it."
Everyone laughed.
Nearby, sports scientists and analysts replayed several moments from the match on tablets.
Every so often someone pointed excitedly at the screen.
"Look at Raya here."
"Look where Cazorla spotted the run."
"Watch Francesco drift between the centre-backs."
Every detail carried new appreciation now that victory had been secured.
The kit staff quietly entered carrying neatly folded black Arsenal club jumpsuits embroidered with the club crest and the words:
FA Cup Winners
One after another they distributed them around the room.
"Fresh clothes for the journey," one of the kit managers announced.
"Much appreciated," Ramsey replied.
The commemorative shirts slowly disappeared.
Medals remained around necks.
Nobody seemed willing to remove those.
Players gradually changed into matching club clothing while conversations continued naturally.
Boots were packed away.
Training bags reorganised.
Someone carefully wrapped the FA Cup inside its protective travelling case before immediately deciding it looked too boring and taking it back out again.
"It should travel with us," Giroud insisted.
"I agree," Walker said.
"It deserves a seat."
Elsewhere beneath Wembley, however, another responsibility still remained.
Arsène Wenger quietly changed back into his dark suit jacket before making his way toward the media auditorium.
The applause that greeted him from assembled journalists was genuine.
He nodded politely before taking his seat.
The FA Cup logo stood behind him.
Microphones covered the table.
The first question arrived immediately.
"Arsène, congratulations. What does winning another FA Cup—and completing the domestic treble—mean to you?"
Wenger smiled modestly.
"It means we had a remarkable season."
"But more importantly, it reflects the consistency of the people inside our football club."
"The players deserve enormous credit."
"So do the staff you rarely see."
"The work is never done by one person."
Another journalist raised a hand.
"You trusted the rotation players to start the final despite having many established stars available. Looking back, was that one of the most satisfying decisions you've made?"
"I did not make that decision because it felt romantic."
"I made it because they earned it."
"They carried us through this competition."
"They deserved the opportunity to finish what they had started."
He paused briefly.
"And I think they justified that trust."
A third question followed.
"Francesco changed the game after coming off the bench. Were you always planning that?"
Wenger smiled knowingly.
"Football is never quite that simple."
"But when you have players of that quality available, they can influence matches at any moment."
"Francesco scored the winning goal."
"But equally, Bukayo Saka created our first."
"Olivier Giroud scored under pressure."
"David Raya kept us in the match."
"The bench contributed."
"The starters contributed."
"That is why we won."
Another reporter leaned forward.
"Speaking of David Raya, his saves in the first half were outstanding."
"They were."
"He displayed calmness."
"Positioning."
"Excellent distribution."
"But perhaps what pleased me most was his personality."
"He looked completely comfortable in an FA Cup Final."
"That tells you a great deal."
The next question concerned Saka.
"He looked fearless."
"He was."
Wenger nodded.
"But courage without intelligence is not enough."
"His assist showed maturity."
"He waited."
"He observed."
"He made the correct decision."
"That pleases coaches more than spectacular tricks."
One final journalist smiled.
"Fourteenth FA Cup. Domestic treble. Historic season."
"How would you like Arsenal supporters to remember this team?"
Wenger looked down for a second before answering.
"As a group that trusted each other."
"That is all."
"Football changes."
"Players change."
"But trust remains timeless."
The room fell briefly silent.
It was a typically Wenger answer.
Thoughtful.
Measured.
Never centred on himself.
He thanked the journalists before leaving to warm applause.
Back inside the dressing room, however, a conspiracy had already begun.
Walker quietly closed the door.
"He'll be back in five minutes."
Alexis grinned.
"Good."
Giroud reached toward the remaining champagne bottles.
"I've been saving these."
Steve Bould, who had slipped away from the press area early, immediately understood.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes," Ramsey replied.
"You're helping."
"I'm absolutely not."
"You absolutely are."
Within moments everyone had hidden.
Behind benches.
Behind lockers.
Beside massage tables.
Even members of the medical department joined in.
The room became strangely silent.
The music was turned off.
Only suppressed laughter remained.
Outside, footsteps approached.
The handle turned.
The dressing-room door opened.
Wenger stepped inside carrying a folder.
"I thought perhaps everyone had already—"
PSSSHHHH!
Champagne exploded from every direction simultaneously.
Walker attacked from the left.
Alexis from the right.
Giroud straight ahead.
Ramsey somehow appeared from behind.
Within two seconds Wenger's immaculate suit was completely soaked.
He simply stood there blinking.
Utterly motionless.
The room held its breath.
Then Wenger looked down at himself.
Back at the players.
Shook his head slowly.
And burst into laughter.
"I cannot believe…"
Another spray interrupted him.
"…that I trusted…"
More champagne.
"…any of you."
The dressing room erupted.
Steve Bould finally surrendered and emptied his own bottle over Wenger's shoulder.
"There."
"Now we're even."
"You too?"
"You made me work with them."
Fair point.
Even the analysts joined in.
Physiotherapists applauded.
Kit managers laughed until tears appeared.
The entire room became one enormous celebration.
Eventually Wenger raised both hands in surrender.
"I admit defeat."
"Completely."
Walker bowed dramatically.
"Accepted."
"You've won."
"I certainly hope so," Wenger replied, looking at his ruined suit.
"I'll need different clothes."
One of the kit staff immediately held up a fresh Arsenal tracksuit.
"We came prepared, boss."
"You expected this?"
"We know our players."
Wenger laughed again before disappearing briefly into the adjoining room.
Several minutes later he returned wearing clean Arsenal club clothing.
The applause he received was spontaneous.
He looked around the room.
At the medals.
The trophy.
The smiling faces.
Then simply said,
"Thank you."
No one answered immediately.
They didn't need to.
The silence itself said enough.
Soon afterward, operations staff informed everyone that the team bus was ready.
Together, the entire Arsenal delegation lifted bags, collected belongings, and ensured one very important passenger travelled safely.
The FA Cup.
Francesco carried it out first.
As the players emerged from Wembley, a final group of waiting supporters greeted them with applause despite the late hour.
The trophy was carefully carried onto the waiting team bus and placed proudly across the front seats before anyone jokingly insisted it deserved a seatbelt.
"It survived ninety minutes against Manchester United," Giroud said.
"It can survive London traffic."
Laughter filled the bus once more.
Players settled into their usual seats.
Medals clinked softly against zips.
Stories from the match immediately resumed.
"I still can't believe Raya saved that Lukaku shot."
"I still can't believe Saka's cross."
"I still can't believe Francesco finished that calmly."
"I still can't believe Wenger's face when we opened those bottles."
That story produced the biggest laughter of all.
Outside, Wembley slowly disappeared behind them.
Inside the bus, the FA Cup reflected the soft interior lights while a group of tired, happy footballers continued talking, smiling, and reliving every unforgettable minute of a season that had ended with three trophies, countless memories, and a place forever secured in Arsenal history.
______________________________________________
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, FA Cup 2016/2017, 2016/2017 Champions League, 2017/2018 Carabao Cup, Premier League 2017/2018, and FA Cup 2017/2018.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 58
Goal: 74
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