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Francesco, though substituted earlier, had returned to the sideline, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of exertion and adrenaline. He caught Giroud, Sánchez, Cazorla, and Gnabry in brief embraces and handshakes. The sense of achievent was tempered by tactical awareness as this victory was commanding, yes, but the Champions League was long, and the lessons of discipline, patience, and adaptability remained etched into every fiber of the team.
The adrenaline of victory still humd beneath Francesco's skin even after the final whistle, a steady thrum that refused to settle. Arsenal players were still embracing, clapping, shouting, exchanging grins that felt too wide for their faces. The Parc des Princes buzzed with conflicting emotions with frustration, disbelief, grudging respect, stunned silence, and an undercurrent of admiration lingering beneath the heartbreak.
But while the rest of the team celebrated, Francesco took a mont to breathe.
He inhaled deeply, letting the cool Parisian night air fill his lungs. The floodlights painted the pitch in a silvery glow, glistening off the blades of grass still wet with sweat and dew. His heartbeat, once thundering, now pulsed with steadier control. Victory was sweet, yes but he felt sothing deeper: pride. Not in himself alone, but in every man in red and white tonight who had pushed through the adversity, who had taken that early blow and responded with courage and intelligence.
He exhaled.
Then, without hesitation, he began walking toward the PSG players.
This part mattered to him, respect after battle.
Cavani was the first he approached. The Uruguayan, despite the loss, stood tall, sweat dripping from his temples, chest rising and falling heavily. Exhaustion pulled at his shoulders, but he t Francesco's approach with open eyes and no bitterness.
Francesco extended his hand.
Cavani accepted it instantly with strong grip, rough fingertips, a silent acknowledgnt between warriors.
"Well played," Cavani said, voice rough with fatigue.
"You too," Francesco replied, sincerity threading every word. "You were incredible tonight. That header… Cech couldn't do anything about it."
Cavani chuckled softly, the tired kind of laugh born from ninety minutes of wrestling with defenders. "We'll et again, my friend."
Francesco nodded. They both knew it was true. On nights like this, rivalries weren't just forces—they beca promises.
Thiago Silva approached next, sweat streaking down his stern face, illuminated by the stadium lights. He had given everything, fought until the final breath of the match, even when Arsenal's montum crashed over PSG like a relentless tide.
Francesco turned to him imdiately.
Their handshake wasn't brief, it carried weight. Respect. Recognition.
Silva held his gaze. "You read everything tonight… every movent, every channel. You punished every mistake. That's what leaders do."
Francesco felt the words hit deeper than expected. Coming from Thiago Silva, one of the most respected defenders in world football now, it ant sothing.
"Obrigado, capitão," Francesco said softly. "You made us work for everything."
Silva's lips curled into a weary smile. "Paris will be ready next ti."
Then Cavani stepped closer, tugged lightly at his shirt.
"Swap?" he asked, breathless but hopeful.
Francesco didn't hesitate. "Of course."
He pulled his own shirt over his head, still warm and damp with the exertion of the match. Cavani did the sa. The two players exchanged jerseys with a mutual nod, holding onto the fabric as though it contained a mory with a battle fought, respect earned, story written in sweat.
Cavani's jersey felt heavier than expected, saturated with effort, with the narrative of the ga. Francesco folded it carefully over his arm. Symbols mattered to him as rituals mattered. Football wasn't just physical; it was emotional, cultural, human.
With the exchange done, Francesco moved across the PSG lineup, shaking hands with Pastore, Verratti, Di María, Maxwell, even unier who had barely been on the pitch. Each gesture felt natural, necessary. Sportsmanship completed the night, it didn't soften victory; it strengthened its aning.
After one final nod to Ery, who stood near the technical area with his arms crossed but eyes still analyzing everything, Francesco turned back toward his team.
Arsenal players were gathering near the halfway line, so waving, so still catching their breath. Giroud, red-cheeked and beaming after his goal, slapped hands with Gnabry. Cazorla grinned wide, his small fra bouncing with uncontainable joy. Kanté, quiet and humble as always, barely reacted except for a shy smile at the praise from his teammates.
But sothing was missing.
The connection with the fans.
The away end sang loudly still, drowning out much of the stadium. The Arsenal away support that tucked in the top corner wrapped in red scarves and flying banners had not stopped since kickoff. Their voices had weathered the early shock, roared with the equalizer, exploded with each goal, and now vibrated the Paris air with chants of triumph and unwavering loyalty.
Francesco felt the pull. These were the people who mattered in monts like this, the lifeblood of the club, the pulse that kept Arsenal beating in the darkest and brightest hours.
He lifted his arm and waved toward the players.
"Co on!" he called out, voice carrying across the pitch.
His teammates looked over imdiately.
He beckoned more emphatically, "Let's thank them together. All of us."
Giroud raised a fist in agreent.
Cazorla nodded enthusiastically.
Sánchez clapped his hands, calling the others to gather.
Gnabry sprinted forward with youthful enthusiasm.
Soon, the entire squad with starting XI and bench had moved toward Francesco.
As one united group, they jogged across the pitch toward the away section.
The cheers grew louder with every step.
Flags waved wildly.
Voices rose to a thunderous crescendo.
Chants of "We love you Arsenal, we do!" rippled through the stadium air.
Francesco slowed as they reached the corner flag, letting the mont expand. The Arsenal fans reached out over the barriers, so crying, so laughing, so clapping until their palms reddened. These were supporters who had traveled miles, crossing countries to stand in enemy territory and scream their lungs out for their team.
Francesco stepped forward, raising Cavani's jersey in one hand, and with his other hand, he clapped toward the supporters.
It was more than appreciation.
It was gratitude.
Sánchez placed an arm around Cazorla's shoulder.
Van Dijk lifted both arms high, a rare broad smile stretching his face.
Cech applauded with the calm dignity of a seasoned veteran.
Koscielny tapped the badge on his chest.
Giroud blew kisses toward the crowd.
Gnabry punched the air in pure joy.
Kanté, modest as ever, dipped his head politely while clapping.
Francesco stepped up to the barrier, as close as the stewards allowed, and shouted over the noise:
"THANK YOU! THANK YOU FOR COMING HERE! THIS IS FOR YOU!"
The roar that answered him felt like a wave hitting his chest.
So fans shouted his na.
So held banners with his face, or with the words "CAPTAIN LEE – OUR HEART, OUR PRIDE."
One fan waved a shirt with "LEE 9" printed on the back, tears streaming down his face.
Francesco's breath caught for a mont.
Nights like this with the cold air, the bright lights, the deafening emotion were why he played football. Why he fought for every inch. Why he pushed through injuries, pressure, expectations. Because the bond between players and supporters was sacred.
He touched his fist gently to his heart, then pointed to the away end.
A gesture of unity.
The players lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, arms around each other, facing the supporters. They bowed together, a single synchronized movent under the Paris sky.
The applause from the away end slowly began to ebb, though the energy remained tangible, vibrating through the turf under Francesco's boots. He lingered, still feeling the warmth of connection with the supporters, their voices resonating as if they were carried straight into his chest. He could see the joy, the relief, the pride etched into every face in those stands. For a mont, he let himself soak it in, the adrenaline still pulsing, the satisfaction of a hard-fought, brilliant victory settling into a quiet glow beneath the skin.
Then, a gentle tug on his arm reminded him of the next obligation. One of the UEFA staff mbers, clipboard in hand and headset glinting under the floodlights, motioned him toward the sideline.
"Mr. Lee, if you could co this way. Interview in five, please," the staffer said, voice firm but courteous.
Francesco nodded, offering a final glance to the fans. He made his way past the pitch boundary, slipping through the maze of stewards and photographers, careful not to disturb the rest of his team as they still lingered in the afterglow. The stadium felt different from this vantage point—less like a living organism and more like a vast theater, the echoes of shouts and applause bouncing off concrete and steel, reaching corners of the stadium he knew he would never see. Yet, even in this transition, the weight of the night—its intensity, its stakes—remained with him, steady and vivid.
He approached the sideline, where the UEFA interviewer, a seasoned professional with a crisp suit and a calm, welcoming smile, was already prepared. Caras had been arranged, lights poised, and microphones extended like bridges connecting Francesco to the millions of viewers who would soon watch this mont unfold across Europe.
"Mr. Lee, congratulations on a spectacular victory tonight. Two goals, instruntal in turning this match around in Paris," the interviewer began, voice warm yet professional, carrying the gravitas the occasion demanded. "How does it feel to lead your team in such a crucial Champions League encounter?"
Francesco took a asured breath, absorbing the energy from the stadium just beyond the caras, the mory of the fans, the sweat and effort still clinging to his jersey, and the imnse pride he felt in his teammates. His eyes reflected both intensity and humility as he spoke.
"Thank you. It's… difficult to put into words," he started, his voice steady but infused with emotion. "Tonight was about the team, about every single player putting in everything they had. From the first whistle, we knew Paris would be a challenge. They are exceptional from Cavani, Thiago Silva, Di María, they all pushed us to our limits. But we prepared, we stayed patient, and we trusted each other."
The interviewer nodded, leaning slightly closer. "Patience, trust, and execution. It was evident on the pitch. After conceding early, you responded almost imdiately. How do you keep composure and rally your team under such intense pressure?"
Francesco allowed himself a small smile, a mix of pride and reflection. "It's about focus. Football at this level is ntal as much as it is physical. You can't let an early setback dictate the rest of the match. I tried to read the ga, communicate with my teammates, and create opportunities. We knew that if we stayed disciplined and trusted our preparation, chances would co. And when they did, we had to be ready to take them."
The interviewer's eyes glead with curiosity. "And you certainly were. Two goals, orchestrating play, leading your team with composure, how much of your preparation do you feel went into tonight's performance?"
Francesco's gaze drifted slightly, perhaps recalling the hours of tactical briefings, analysis sessions, and ntal visualization. "Preparation is everything. Wenger, the coaching staff, the analysts, they gave us the tools. But execution depends on the players. You have to trust in your preparation, but also in yourself and your teammates. Every run, every pass, every movent is part of a bigger plan. Tonight, it all aligned. And credit to the team—they made the goals possible."
The interviewer leaned back slightly, hands folded, a soft chuckle escaping. "It's clear your leadership extends beyond scoring. Now, looking forward, what does this victory an for Arsenal's Champions League campaign?"
Francesco's expression hardened just slightly, the competitive fire rekindling. "It's a strong statent, yes, but the Champions League is long. One match doesn't define a season. Every opponent will be tough, every ga demanding. This victory gives us confidence, but it also reminds us that we need to maintain focus, work hard, and be consistent. There are many battles ahead, and we'll approach each one the sa way with preparation, intensity, and unity."
A cara operator signaled the final segnt of the interview. Francesco's gaze shifted slightly toward the crowd, invisible to most of the viewers but a conscious acknowledgnt of the supporters. His voice softened, warmth threading his words. "And of course, our fans tonight they were incredible. Every shout, every chant, every gesture gave us energy. Their support carries us, and we never take that for granted."
The interviewer smiled, nodding appreciatively. "Well said, Mr. Lee. And now, a small token of recognition before we let you return to your team. Based on your performance tonight, scoring two pivotal goals, showing leadership and tactical brilliance, we are honored to present you with the Man of the Match award."
Francesco's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise passing through his features. The award, a sleek crystal trophy, was handed to him by the interviewer. He took it with both hands, feeling its weight. He held it up montarily for the caras, the stadium lights reflecting off its polished surface, catching the glint in his eyes.
"Thank you," he said, voice calm but filled with gravity. "This isn't just for . It's for the team, for Wenger, for the staff, for everyone who prepared us, and of course, for the fans. Every player contributed tonight. I'm grateful to be part of this group."
The interviewer, smiling, nodded. "A true captain in every sense. Congratulations once again, Mr. Lee. Enjoy the rest of your evening, it is well earned."
Francesco inclined his head, a mix of humility and pride. He turned toward the pitch, the cheers from the away section still echoing faintly in the background. The stadium, though slowly emptying in parts, retained a hum of residual energy, a lingering testant to the night's drama and triumph. He could still see the Arsenal supporters waving, scarves lifted high, their faces alight with the thrill of victory. He tucked the Man of the Match award under his arm, allowing the mont to imprint on him with a quiet, personal celebration amidst the collective joy of a hard-fought win.
As he returned toward his teammates, still lingering near the halfway line, he felt the weight of leadership settle comfortably back on his shoulders. Giroud clapped him on the back, Sánchez offered a grin, and Cazorla gave a thumbs-up. Even Kanté, quiet but ever-present, nodded in acknowledgnt, subtle but full of respect.
"Two goals, two massive monts," Giroud said, his voice carrying the breathlessness of exertion but tinged with admiration. "You carried us tonight, Francesco."
Francesco shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. "We all carried each other. Every one of you made it possible. Don't forget that."
Sánchez clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "Still, don't let the MOTM go to your head, captain," he teased lightly. "You earned it, yes, but the real victory is this team."
Francesco allowed the chuckle, feeling the camaraderie and warmth of the locker-room bond spilling slightly onto the pitch. He scanned the squad, the glow of victory still in their faces, the tired but happy energy evident in their movents. He knew, intrinsically, that monts like this like the Man of the Match awards, the cheers, the accolades were important, yes, but they were only part of the bigger story. The story of teamwork, unity, and relentless effort.
He finally allowed himself a few steps back, holding the award a little higher, letting the caras capture the mont one last ti. Beyond the television screens, he could feel the hearts of the Arsenal supporters vibrating in unison with his own pulse. This connection, this shared triumph, was what football was always ant to be. He could feel it in the echoes of shouts, in the fading chants, in the small smiles of fans still lingering despite the late hour.
As Francesco made his way to the tunnel leading toward the dressing room, the UEFA staff offering brief congratulations and guiding him smoothly past the press scrum, he allowed himself to reflect on the night. He thought of the early goal conceded, the instant reset, the ntal discipline that had kept him and the team calm. He thought of the precise movents, the split-second decisions, the runs into the channels that split PSG's defense apart. He thought of the high press, the tactical intelligence, the timing of each substitution, and the unerring focus of his teammates.
And yet, beyond all of that from the goals, the passes, the tactical mastery, what lingered most was gratitude. Gratitude for the team who trusted him, for the coaching staff who prepared them, and above all, for the fans who had refused to let the spirit of Arsenal fade even in the early setback. The Man of the Match award sat lightly in his hands, a symbol, yes, but not the essence. The essence was the collective effort, the shared heartbeat of everyone who had poured themselves into this evening.
When Francesco finally entered the dressing room, the chatter was muted, subdued by exhaustion but punctuated with laughter and sporadic shouts of celebration. Players swapped jerseys, wiped their faces with towels, and recounted monts in fragnts, reliving the highs of the match in brief, vivid flashes. Wenger sat quietly at the end of the bench, observing, smiling faintly but allowing the room to buzz, letting the team revel in the fruits of their labor while keeping a watchful eye for composure.
Francesco placed the award on a small table near the locker bay, a reminder but not a trophy to boast of. He sank onto the bench, exhaling fully now, allowing the last vestiges of adrenaline to ebb, replaced with a profound sense of fulfillnt. Around him, the team laughed, recounted plays, and even teased one another about the early shock of the first goal. Every joke, every grin, every pat on the back reinforced the bond they had forged—not just as teammates, but as brothers who had battled through a European night and erged victorious.
Minutes later, Wenger approached Francesco, his eyes sharp yet warm. "Well done," he said simply, voice carrying the weight of approval that only a manager of his experience could offer. "Tonight, you led. Not just with your goals, but with your mind, your awareness, and your example. That is the mark of a true captain. Rember this feeling, but stay hungry. There is more to achieve."
Francesco gave Wenger a small nod, the weight of the evening's exertion pressing against his body but tempered by a profound sense of accomplishnt. He leaned back slightly, feeling the soft leather of the bench under him, listening to the muffled laughter and sporadic chatter of his teammates. Every breath carried the mory of the ga: the sharp whistle of tackles, the distant roar of the crowd, the precise thud of ball against boot, and the rhythm of their relentless teamwork. It was a lody only a footballer could hear, one that lingered in the chest like a pulse long after the music had stopped.
Wenger crouched slightly beside him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Francesco, the press conference," he said quietly, voice calm but deliberate, "join . Özil will be there as well. It is important we give our reflections and maintain composure. Rember, how we speak tonight, how we present ourselves as it carries as much weight as our performance on the pitch."
Francesco exhaled, the familiar mixture of anticipation and responsibility coiling in his stomach. He had faced press conferences before, of course, but there was sothing different tonight. The victory in Paris was not just a ga won—it was a statent, a declaration of intent on the European stage. Words mattered now as much as deeds. He rose, brushing his damp hair back, adjusting his shirt, and placing a hand gently on the crystal Man of the Match award as if for reassurance.
Özil, already composed and collected, rose to et them. His calm, almost imperceptible smile reflected a quiet satisfaction. "Well done," Özil said softly, voice asured. "Tonight was special. The team worked as one, and we showed that here."
Francesco nodded, offering a small, appreciative grin. "It was teamwork. Every one of us contributed. And tonight, the fans… they carried us."
Wenger motioned for both players to follow him. "Then let us go. The dia awaits, and it is our responsibility to communicate the essence of tonight's performance—not just the goals, but the discipline, the preparation, and the unity."
The three of them made their way through the tunnel that led to the press conference room. The corridors were narrower than the stadium itself, dimly lit, echoing with the fading sounds of the departing fans. The scent of turf lingered faintly on Francesco's boots, and the residual sweat of exertion clung to his skin, a reminder of the battle just fought. Every step seed purposeful yet asured; he could feel Wenger's steady presence alongside him, a quiet reassurance, a ntor guiding a captain through the next chapter of responsibility.
As they approached the door to the press conference room, the atmosphere shifted. From the mont the door swung open, Francesco was greeted by a wall of light with flashlights from caras flashing rapidly, a kaleidoscope of bright reflections off lenses and polished surfaces. Reporters had already taken their positions, microphones extended, recording devices raised, their eyes keen and alert, waiting for every word to erge. The hum of conversation, the rustle of papers, the soft clicking of buttons created a backdrop of organized chaos, one that demanded focus.
The room itself was lined with a long table, behind which journalists and photographers had already assembled. Their expressions were a mixture of curiosity, anticipation, and professionalism. So were scribbling notes on pads, others typing swiftly on laptops, their eyes darting between Francesco, Özil, and Wenger as they entered. Caras clicked, capturing the first mont of their arrival, the flood of light nearly overwhelming at first.
Francesco took a asured step forward, adjusting his posture as he scanned the room. He could see familiar faces among the press, as the seasoned sports writers who had followed European competitions for decades, young journalists eager to capture a defining quote, and international dia representatives, all there to witness and docunt the night that Arsenal had claid such a commanding victory in Paris.
Wenger took his place first, sitting with that unruffled composure he had carried through countless press conferences over decades. His gaze swept the room, acknowledging questions without yet answering, conveying authority and calm assurance. Özil sat beside him, posture relaxed yet attentive, hands folded neatly on the table, eyes scanning the crowd with quiet intelligence.
Francesco took his seat next to Özil, the Man of the Match award resting lightly at his side. The hum of the room seed to grow louder in his ears as the first reporter raised a hand.
"Mr. Lee," the reporter began, voice clear and slightly urgent, "congratulations on the victory tonight. Two goals, a performance full of leadership and tactical intelligence. How would you describe the team's ntality after conceding early in the match?"
Francesco allowed himself a small breath, thinking through the weight of his response. This was more than a casual interview, it was an opportunity to convey the resilience, intelligence, and cohesion of his team to millions watching worldwide.
"The early goal was a challenge, yes," he began, his voice calm but imbued with intensity. "But setbacks are part of football. We had prepared for adversity. The team stayed focused, communicated, and trusted in our plan. Each player knew his role and supported his teammates. The response was collective with every run, every pass, every defensive action was a manifestation of that unity."
A murmur of approval swept through so reporters, and another voice quickly followed. "Francesco, your two goals were decisive. How did you find the spaces against such a disciplined PSG defense?"
He smiled faintly, recalling the movent of the match, the subtle shifts in PSG's defensive shape, the careful timing of his runs, the interplay with Sánchez, Cazorla, and Gnabry. "It's about awareness and timing," he said. "I tried to read the ga, anticipate spaces, and coordinate with my teammates. Football at this level is about precision and understanding your teammates' intentions. The credit for the goals goes as much to the players providing the assists and creating the opportunities as it does to ."
Wenger nodded slightly beside him, a rare visible display of pride, and Özil gave a subtle smile, his agreent silent but unmistakable.
Another reporter raised a hand, this one from a French dia outlet, voice edged with curiosity and perhaps a hint of defensiveness. "Mr. Lee, a commanding win in Paris is a statent. Do you feel this changes how Europe will perceive Arsenal this season?"
Francesco's eyes briefly scanned the room, acknowledging the question but keeping his tone asured. "It is certainly a strong ssage," he replied. "But European football is a journey. Every team we face is formidable, and each ga will require the sa preparation, focus, and effort. Tonight, we demonstrated our capabilities, but we remain aware that consistency is key. This is one victory, albeit a significant one, in a long campaign."
The room seed to shift slightly, sensing both humility and confidence in his words. Another reporter, this one from a major English outlet, leaned forward. "Francesco, the fans were incredible tonight, especially the away supporters in Paris. How important is their presence in performances like this?"
Francesco's face softened, a warmth threading his voice. "The fans are everything. From the first minute to the last, their energy carried us. Their chants, their support, the sacrifices they make to be here that traveling across countries, standing for hours as they are the lifeblood of this club. Football is not just played on the pitch; it is experienced together. Tonight, their passion was a force that elevated us all."
A murmur of agreent rippled through the room. Several caras clicked simultaneously as journalists tried to capture the human connection Francesco had just articulated—the bond between player and supporter, the invisible but tangible heartbeat of the club.
As the questions continued, Francesco responded with a balance of tactical insight, humility, and leadership. He spoke about the strategic adjustnts Wenger had implented after the early goal, the psychological composure required to maintain high pressing against world-class opponents, and the ntal and physical synchronization required in every movent on the field. He credited his teammates consistently, acknowledging Kanté's tireless midfield work, Xhaka's disciplined pivoting, Bellerín and Monreal's contributions on the flanks, and the ingenuity of Sánchez, Cazorla, and Gnabry. Each answer wove a story not just of individual brilliance but of collective mastery.
One journalist asked a final, more personal question: "Francesco, looking forward, how does tonight's victory influence your own ambitions for the season?"
Francesco paused, allowing a mont of reflection. The Man of the Match award at his side, the residual glow of the Parisian crowd still echoing in his mind, he spoke deliberately. "Every victory teaches you sothing," he said. "Tonight, it reinforced the power of preparation, trust, and unity. My ambition is the sa as always—to lead this team, to inspire confidence in every teammate, to challenge ourselves at the highest level, and to honor the supporters who believe in us. Football is about growth, resilience, and shared triumph. This night is a chapter in that journey, not the final page."
Wenger's presence beside him, calm and poised, added weight to the words. Özil's quiet nod reinforced the sentint. The room, once a whirlwind of caras and flashes, seed to pause for a mont, as if absorbing the sincerity and depth of Francesco's response.
Finally, the interviewer leaned back, a soft smile spreading across his face. "Mr. Lee, Özil, Wenger, thank you for your ti. Congratulations once again on a remarkable victory tonight. Francesco, the Man of the Match award is well deserved, and it is clear your leadership and performance will be rembered by fans across Europe."
Francesco offered a final nod, holding the award lightly. "Thank you. It is an honor, truly, but it is shared with the team. Every player here contributed to tonight's success. We celebrate together, and we will continue to work together."
As they rose to leave, the room buzzed with the residual energy of the night, the flashes of caras capturing the closing monts, and the questions that would be turned into articles, interviews, and headlines across the continent.
Francesco stepped back into the corridor, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The noise of the room faded, leaving only the echo of his footsteps and the lingering satisfaction of accomplishnt. As Wenger, Özil, and Francesco walked back toward the dressing room, the quiet hum of the stadium beyond the walls reminded them that the night's work was done, but the journey was far from over.
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Na : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
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, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 8
Goal: 11
Assist: 0
MOTM: 3
POTM: 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
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