If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Francesco, still buzzing, slowed his run and pressed a hand over the England crest on his chest, tapping it twice, eyes closing as the roar of the fans washed over him.
The roar still rang in Francesco's ears as the game restarted, the chants of "LEE! LEE! LEE!" echoing through the steel beams of the Bollaert-Delelis like a battle hymn. His chest still throbbed from where his heart hammered, but he forced himself to breathe deeply, to reset. He'd been around long enough to know — celebrate, yes, but never switch off. Wales weren't here to make up numbers.
Almost immediately after kick-off, England's midfield three — Rooney dropping deeper, Dier holding, Alli pushing forward — pressed high to keep the pressure on. But Wales were stubborn. Joe Allen, head up and scanning, started to find pockets of space. Ramsey began floating wide, dragging Dier away, creating angles where none had existed minutes earlier.
The fight for the middle of the pitch was relentless, each duel a micro-battle. Henderson snapped into a tackle on Ledley, winning the ball but conceding a throw. Alli tried to spin off Allen but was pulled back. Rooney, dropping into his quarterback role, pinged a diagonal ball meant for Sterling, only for Davies to intercept with a leaping header. The rhythm of the game quickened, each side desperate to stamp authority, neither willing to yield.
The Welsh supporters, silenced by Francesco's wonder strike, roared back into life. Their anthem, their chants, their unrelenting voices — they cascaded down in waves, urging Ramsey and Allen to seize control, to not let England's midfield settle.
Then came the moment.
The 34th minute. Gareth Bale, who had been prowling the right half-space, suddenly darted infield. Allen spotted him and zipped a pass forward. Bale cushioned it on his chest, turned, and powered toward the D.
Dier read it late. His instincts screamed to hold, but his body moved forward anyway. He lunged, not maliciously, but desperate to halt the Welsh talisman before he breached the box. His leg clipped Bale's shin. Bale went tumbling, arms flailing, a sharp cry leaving his lips as he landed hard just a yard outside the penalty area.
The whistle shrieked.
Free kick.
The Welsh players erupted in protest that it should've been a penalty. Ramsey pointed at the line furiously, shouting, "On the line! On the line!" Williams stormed toward the referee, arms waving. But the decision was firm — just outside. A free kick, central, maybe twenty yards.
Francesco's stomach tightened. He didn't need anyone to tell him what was coming.
Joe Hart was already barking orders, sprinting to his near post, waving frantically at his defenders. "Wall! WALL! NOW!" he screamed, his voice cracking with urgency. Four white shirts scrambled into position: Rooney, Dier, Cahill, and Rose, shoulder to shoulder, hands cupping their groins, eyes locked on the ball. Hart spread his arms wide, commanding. "No gaps! No gaps!" He pointed at Walker and Sterling, ordering them to pick up loose runners.
And there he was. Gareth Bale.
The Welsh number eleven stood over the ball, his chest heaving, sweat streaking down his temple. His hair clung damp against his forehead, but his eyes — sharp, focused, hungry. This was his territory. Twenty yards, dead center, left foot primed.
He crouched, placed the ball delicately, then leaned back to inspect the target. The net. The space just over the wall. The sliver of daylight between Hart's outstretched arms and the crossbar.
The England fans, who had barely finished singing Francesco's name, fell into an uneasy hush. They knew Bale's reputation. They had seen the compilation reels — thunderbolts from Madrid, curling rockets from thirty yards, dead balls struck with terrifying precision. If Francesco's free kick had been artistry, Bale's promised to be destruction.
The Welsh fans sensed it too. Their voices swelled, chanting "BALE! BALE! BALE!" like a war cry, as if their belief alone could will the ball into the net.
Francesco, jogging back to the edge of the box to mark Allen, stole a glance. He saw Bale's calm, his ritual. The three short breaths. The measured steps back. The way his stance opened — legs apart, shoulders squared, like a sprinter readying himself.
The referee whistled.
Silence descended.
Bale ran. His body leaned left, his left foot swinging with ferocious intent. Contact was pure — the ball struck with that unique whip, knuckles tightening, spinning just enough to swerve but not enough to slow.
The ball rose, fast, vicious, clearing the wall before anyone could react. Hart launched himself, arms outstretched, gloves reaching. But he was half a step too slow.
The ball bent mid-flight, then dipped savagely. It curved past Hart's fingertips, smashing into the bottom corner of the net with a violent rustle.
Goal.
The Welsh end exploded. Flags whipped furiously, beer sprayed into the sky, voices cracked as they screamed Bale's name. Red shirts surged to the corner, engulfing their talisman as he slid on his knees, fists clenched, face twisted in a roar of defiance.
On the giant screen, the scoreboard flickered:
England 1 – 1 Wales (34' Bale)
Bale's celebration was deliberate. He didn't just bask in the adulation of his fans. He turned, eyes narrowing, and looked straight across the field. Straight at Francesco. His finger jabbed to the turf, his mouth moving without words audible: I'm here too. Don't think you've beaten me.
Francesco froze for a second, his chest tightening. That was no ordinary goal. That was a message. Bale wasn't going to let this be his night uncontested.
Joe Hart thumped the ground in frustration, then sprang up, veins bulging in his neck as he screamed at the wall. "YOU JUMP! YOU JUMP NEXT TIME!" His fury was raw, but deep down, even he knew: no wall, no dive, no command was stopping that strike. It was brilliance. Pure, unanswerable brilliance.
The England players gathered quickly, clapping hands, forcing calm. Rooney grabbed Francesco by the shoulder. "Head up. Game on. Don't let him get in your head."
But Francesco felt the fire ignite inside him. Bale had answered his free kick with one of his own. The world wasn't watching just England versus Wales anymore. It was Francesco Lee versus Gareth Bale.
The game had changed.
Bale's strike hadn't just evened the scoreline — it had split the match wide open. Where before the game had swayed in bursts, now it raged like a storm with no rhythm, only chaos. Both sides knew the danger. Both had seen their talismans rise with free kicks worthy of highlight reels. And both refused to give an inch.
The tackles started to fly.
In the 36th minute, Rooney tried to spin away from Allen near the halfway line, shielding the ball with his back. Allen darted in, sharp and low, nicking Rooney's ankle. The England captain went down with a grunt, the referee's whistle piercing the air again. Rooney slapped the turf, then sprang back up, exchanging heated words with Allen, who lifted his hands in mock innocence.
Barely a minute later, Dier responded. Ledley received a pass on the turn, trying to pivot into space, but Dier lunged in late, clipping the back of his leg. Another whistle, another foul. The referee jogged across, holding his hand out like a warning, his patience already being tested.
The crowd thrived on it. Each challenge sparked roars, whistles, jeers. Every foul was celebrated by one side and condemned by the other. It wasn't just a football match anymore. It was a border skirmish played out in boots and sweat.
By the 39th minute, Cahill had clattered into Ramsey chasing a bouncing ball, leaving the Welsh midfielder rolling on the turf. England fans cheered the crunch of contact, but the Welsh end erupted in fury. Ramsey popped up quickly, dusting himself off, but the message was clear — nobody was holding back.
And Wales gave it right back. In the 41st minute, Davies charged into Sterling as the winger tried to accelerate down the flank. The tackle was clean enough to avoid a booking, but heavy enough to send Sterling tumbling into the advertising boards. He bounced up with a grimace, shaking his arm as if to prove he wasn't rattled, but his glare toward Davies told the truth.
Four fouls apiece in the space of ten minutes. Not malicious, not reckless — but fierce, uncompromising. Each one stoked the fire higher, feeding the tension, feeding the noise. The referee's whistle was becoming as common as the roar of the crowd.
Francesco, meanwhile, found himself caught in the eye of the storm. Bale's equalizer had lit a fuse inside him. Every time the ball came near, he demanded it. Every run was sharper, every touch purposeful. He wasn't content with one free kick. He wanted more. He wanted to answer Bale again, to show the world that his first strike hadn't been a flash in the pan.
But Wales knew it too. Williams barked constant orders at Chester and Davies: "Track him! Don't give him space!" Allen shadowed him whenever he drifted inside, tugging at his shirt, bumping him just enough to break rhythm. Yet Francesco kept pressing, kept demanding. His lungs burned, but his will was iron.
The clock ticked into stoppage time. The fourth official's board went up: +2 minutes.
England pushed.
Kane, who had been quiet in front of goal, suddenly dropped deep, almost into midfield. Rooney glanced up, spotted him, and fed him the ball with a short pass. Kane controlled, his back to goal, Davies pressing close. But instead of holding it, Kane spun just slightly, scanning. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Francesco making a darting diagonal run between Chester and Taylor.
The space was narrow, the angle tighter still, but Kane trusted his vision. He lifted his head and threaded a pass — not too strong, not too slow, but weighted to perfection. The ball slid like a blade between defenders, cutting into the gap.
Francesco's heart leapt.
He broke into a sprint, timing it perfectly, his eyes wide as the ball rolled toward him. Taylor lunged, Chester tried to cut across, but Francesco was quicker, smoother. His right foot met the ball just inside the box, and with one touch he shifted it slightly forward. Hennessey charged, arms spreading, desperate to close the angle.
But Francesco was calm. Too calm.
With his second touch, he didn't blast. He didn't panic. He opened his body, swung his right foot, and guided the ball low across the keeper's dive. The strike was clean, measured, kissed with precision.
The ball slid past Hennessey's glove and into the far corner.
Goal.
For a second time, the stadium erupted. The England fans roared like a tidal wave crashing against steel. Francesco wheeled away, his face alight, his arms outstretched in sheer disbelief and joy. His teammates swarmed him again — Kane first, shouting in his ear, "That's you, mate! That's all you!" Rooney grabbed him, shaking him like a brother. Sterling leapt, Alli wrapped him in a hug, Dier bellowed toward the crowd.
The scoreboard flashed again:
England 2 – 1 Wales (45+2' Lee)
Francesco dropped to his knees, head tilted back, his arms raised as if to the heavens. His chest heaved with every breath, but his eyes burned bright. A brace. On the biggest stage. And not just any brace — one to answer Bale's brilliance and restore England's lead just before the break.
Bale stood near the center circle, hands on his hips, watching. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw tightened. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
The referee blew his whistle almost immediately after the restart.
Halftime.
The players trudged off, sweat dripping, chests heaving. England's men slapped hands, clapped shoulders, exchanged nods of encouragement. Wales' players muttered to one another, shaking their heads, frustrated but far from beaten.
As Francesco jogged toward the tunnel, the England fans above him sang his name again. "LEE! LEE! LEE!" Their voices carried him forward, filling him with a sense of destiny he had never known before.
The dressing room was thick with noise and breath. Boots clattered against the floor, kitmen scurried with water bottles, and the muffled roar of the stadium above seeped through the concrete walls like distant thunder. England had the lead again, but the players' bodies told the truth of the first half: shirts stuck to skin, hair plastered to foreheads, legs heavy from the relentless pace.
Francesco sank into his seat, still buzzing with adrenaline. His chest was a furnace, his thighs burned, but his eyes… his eyes were alive. Two goals. Against Wales. Against Bale. The dream was still playing itself out. Kane gave him a quick clap on the shoulder, murmuring, "Unreal, mate. Absolutely unreal." Rooney nodded with a smile, sweat dripping from his chin.
The door swung open. Roy Hodgson stepped in briskly, his grey suit creased, tie slightly loosened, but his demeanor sharp as a blade. He didn't waste time — he clapped his hands once, loud enough to slice through the chatter.
"Alright, lads," he began, his voice steady, carrying the authority of a man who'd seen countless locker rooms. "That's better. Much better. We showed character to come back after Bale's free kick, and Francesco…" — he turned toward him, offering a firm nod — "…you've made the difference. But don't think for a second that they're finished. Wales will come at us hard in the second half. They've got nothing to lose."
The players leaned in, sweat still dripping, focus sharpening.
"They'll be fired up," Hodgson continued, pacing slightly in front of the benches. "Bale, especially. You've seen it. He's their danger. He'll try to drag them back into it single-handedly. We need discipline. Compact shape. Don't get drawn into their physical game, don't lose your heads. Dier, you screen the back four. Rooney, keep talking, keep them organized. And up top…" — he looked between Kane, Sterling, and Francesco — "…keep stretching them. Run their legs off. They can't defend pace and movement all game."
He turned toward Alli. "Dele, you're finding the gaps. Keep threading those passes. One of them will kill the game off."
Then, with a softer tone, almost fatherly, Hodgson added, "We're forty-five minutes away from making a real statement. Don't waste it. Play smart. Play together. And when the chances come… finish them."
There were nods all around, words of encouragement muttered between teammates. The noise of the crowd outside swelled — the second half was nearly upon them.
Francesco pulled his shirt down, splashed water across his face, and rose with the others. His heart thudded not with fear, but with anticipation. He wanted the ball. He wanted more.
The tunnel buzzed with tension as the players lined up again. The Welsh looked grim, jaws set, eyes narrowed with determination. Bale stood at the front, his shirt already sticking to his skin, chest heaving as if he were ready to sprint from the whistle. Behind him, Ramsey clapped his hands, barking orders in Welsh to steel his teammates.
Francesco caught Bale's eye briefly — a flicker of acknowledgment, maybe even respect — but it was fleeting. The whistle was coming.
They emerged onto the pitch, the sunlight cutting across the grass, the roar of the crowd hitting them like a wall. Red on one side, white on the other, each singing, each shouting, each believing.
The referee checked his watch, glanced around once, and raised the whistle to his lips.
Peep!
The second half began.
Almost immediately, Gareth Bale came alive.
In the 47th minute, he picked up the ball near the halfway line, shrugging off Dier with sheer power. The crowd rose as he surged forward, that trademark galloping stride eating up ground. Cahill stepped out, but Bale flicked the ball past him and tore into the box. The angle was tight, but he unleashed a left-footed rocket toward the near post.
Joe Hart flung himself across — fingertips brushing the ball, deflecting it just wide. The Welsh fans howled in agony; the English fans exhaled in relief.
Two minutes later, Bale tried again. Ramsey fed him a pass just outside the box, and this time Bale didn't hesitate — he curled a vicious effort toward the top corner. Hart stretched, eyes wide, but the ball skimmed just over the bar.
England's defenders shouted at one another, pointing, shuffling, desperate to stay compact. But Bale wasn't done. In the 52nd minute, he collected the ball thirty yards out, shifted onto his left, and hammered a dipping strike that seemed destined for the net. Hart scrambled, diving low, and somehow palmed it clear.
The pressure was suffocating. The Welsh fans were deafening, urging Bale on with every touch. England looked rattled, forced back, unable to string passes together. Francesco tracked back, lungs burning, even sliding in to block a cross from Taylor. He could feel the momentum tilting, the danger thick in the air.
But England bent — they didn't break. Cahill and Smalling hurled themselves into tackles, Dier swept up loose balls, and Hart roared encouragement from his goalmouth.
By the 55th minute, the storm began to ease. The England players looked at one another, nodding, rallying. They had survived the rampage. Now it was their turn.
And then, in the 58th minute, came the moment that would etch Francesco's name into history.
England broke forward after a rare misplaced pass from Allen. Rooney snapped it up and slid it quickly to Alli, who had drifted into space between the lines. Dele glanced up, his young face alive with mischief, and spotted Francesco darting across Chester's shoulder.
The weight of the pass was perfect — not too strong, not too slow, slicing Wales open. Francesco's boots hit the grass in rhythm, his body carrying him forward like a man possessed.
He entered the box with Chester lunging desperately behind him, Hennessey rushing out again, arms wide. Time slowed. Francesco could feel the breath in his lungs, the blood in his veins, the roar of the crowd collapsing into a single hum.
He feinted with his right, nudged the ball slightly left with his instep, and then — with his third touch — wrapped his foot around it, curling it past the diving keeper into the far corner.
Net.
Goal.
Hat-trick.
The stadium exploded. England's half of the stands erupted into chaos — limbs flailing, scarves flying, roars tearing at the sky. Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag, his arms wide, face lit with sheer ecstasy. His teammates piled in, Alli tackling him to the ground, Kane and Rooney jumping on top.
The scoreboard flashed like a beacon:
England 3 – 1 Wales (58' Lee, hat-trick)
Up in the commentary box, voices cracked with disbelief. "It's Francesco Lee again! Three goals! A hat-trick at the Euros! This young man is writing his name into English football folklore right before our eyes!"
Francesco lay on the turf beneath the weight of his teammates, his chest heaving, his mind spinning. Three. He had three. On this stage. Against Bale. Against Wales.
When he finally rose, his arms lifted toward the fans, he could see faces pressed against the railings, men and women in white shirts screaming his name, tears in some eyes. He felt it deep in his bones: destiny.
The Welsh tried to regroup, but the blow had staggered them. Their shoulders sagged, their runs grew heavier. England, smelling blood, pressed higher, Alli and Rooney linking, Sterling buzzing down the flank.
But Roy Hodgson, cautious as ever, decided it was time to change things.
In the 65th minute, the board went up. Three numbers glowed red: 14, 7, 9.
The stadium murmured as Kane, Sterling, and Francesco all saw their numbers. Hodgson had made up his mind. Fresh legs. Protect the lead.
Kane jogged off first, clapping the fans. Sterling followed, chewing his lip in slight frustration but slapping hands with Wilshere, who bounded on with energy.
And then Francesco.
As his number shone, the stadium rose to its feet. Every England fan in the stands stood, applauding, chanting, roaring his name. "LEE! LEE! LEE!" The sound washed over him as he jogged toward the touchline, his face half-exhausted, half-radiant. Hodgson gave him a firm handshake and a quiet word: "Well done, son. More than well done."
On came Vardy, hungry as ever, his eyes alight. Sturridge too, loose-limbed and unpredictable, grinning as if he couldn't wait to dance on the pitch. Wilshere slipped into midfield, ready to bring control.
Francesco draped a jacket over his shoulders and sat down, still catching his breath, still trying to process the sheer magnitude of what he had done. A hat-trick. At the Euros. He could feel the whole stadium buzzing, the energy of it coursing through his veins.
Francesco sat on the bench, still riding the electric buzz that coursed through him after his hat-trick. His legs trembled, not with nerves anymore but with exhaustion and release. The jacket Hodgson had draped across his shoulders barely dulled the heat radiating from his body. He tilted his head back, listening to the chanting of his name slowly morph into the broader anthem of English pride, as if the whole stadium had been stitched together by one voice.
But the match was far from over.
Out on the pitch, Wales weren't ready to let the narrative die so easily. Chris Coleman stalked the technical area, his jaw tight, his hands slicing through the air with gestures sharp enough to cut glass. He could see what his players couldn't hide — heavy legs, tired lungs, shoulders sagging from the blow Francesco had delivered. Three goals. It wasn't just the scoreline that had wounded them, it was the manner. They had poured everything into Bale's storm in the early second half, and still, England had found another answer.
Coleman signaled to his bench.
In the 70th minute, the board went up. Joe Ledley trudged off, his face pale with exhaustion, replaced by David Edwards — a player with energy, industry, and the grit to harass England's midfield. Alongside him, Hal Robson-Kanu, who had run himself into the ground chasing shadows, was withdrawn for Jonny Williams. Williams, smaller but quick on the turn, was meant to bring spark and creativity, to link Bale with the midfield and keep Wales believing.
The Welsh fans roared their approval, trying to breathe fire back into their side.
But England smelled something different in the air now. Control. Supremacy.
Jamie Vardy bounced on his toes near the halfway line, every movement sharp, restless. If Kane had been the steady spear, Vardy was the dagger hidden up a sleeve — quick, unpredictable, and lethal when the game opened up. And Wales, in their desperation to claw back, were leaving gaps wider with every forward push.
The chance came in the 75th minute.
England broke through midfield with speed. Wilshere, freshly on, wriggled away from Edwards' press and slipped the ball into Rooney. The captain, head always scanning, saw the line — saw Vardy already twitching at the shoulder of Chester.
One touch. Two touches. Rooney lifted his head and threaded the ball through the seam.
Vardy exploded. He was off like a greyhound loosed from its trap, his boots kicking up tufts of grass as he sprinted into daylight. Chester tried to recover, but Vardy was gone, eating up the ground between himself and Hennessey.
The keeper charged out, desperate, spreading himself. But Vardy had already decided. He took one touch to steady himself, then stabbed his right foot through the ball, low and brutal, arrowing it beneath the keeper's dive and into the net.
The stadium detonated again. White shirts surged forward in celebration, flags waving, throats tearing with joy.
England 4 – 1 Wales (75' Vardy)
Vardy slid on his knees toward the corner, face contorted in pure, wild delight. His teammates swarmed him — Sturridge laughing, slapping the back of his head, Rooney grinning wide, arms pumping toward the stands.
From the bench, Francesco leapt to his feet, clapping furiously, grinning as if he had scored it himself. He knew Vardy's story, the rise from non-league to Leicester's fairy tale, and now here he was, thundering a dagger into Wales at the Euros. Francesco shouted across the pitch, cupping his hands: "Jamie! That's it!"
On the other side, Bale bent forward, hands on his knees. Sweat dripped from his hair, his chest heaving. He had tried to drag them, tried to turn the tide alone, but every time England had found another answer. And now, with fifteen minutes left, the scoreline stretched like a chasm.
Coleman clapped his hands, barking at his players not to give in. But the weight of inevitability pressed heavy on every Welsh movement.
England didn't ease off.
Sturridge, fresh and eager, prowled along the edge of the box like a predator circling wounded prey. His touches were silky, his turns sharp, his grin wide as if he were daring defenders to step to him. Wilshere, buzzing with energy, kept the ball ticking, spraying passes into channels Wales could no longer plug.
In the 84th minute, it all came together.
Alli picked up the ball near the right wing, his shirt clinging to his back, but his energy still fizzing. He danced past Jonny Williams with a cheeky shimmy, then cut inside, rolling the ball to Rooney. The captain, calm and calculating, spotted Sturridge lurking just inside the box.
The pass was crisp, perfectly timed.
Sturridge let it roll across his body, shifting it onto his left. Taylor lunged, Chester staggered into position, but Sturridge was a step quicker. He curled his foot around the ball and whipped a shot with venom and artistry, sending it screaming into the far corner.
Hennessey flung himself desperately, but he was nowhere near it. The net bulged.
England 5 – 1 Wales (84' Sturridge)
The roar was deafening, almost mocking in its volume now. England fans leapt onto seats, shirts spun in the air, voices cracked as they sang. On the pitch, Sturridge wheeled away, his arms spread wide, his famous dance ready to spill out. Alli joined in, Rooney laughed, even Dier came charging forward to join the pile.
The scoreboard was merciless. Wales, proud and fierce, had been torn apart. Not scraped past. Not edged out. Torn.
Francesco stood again from the bench, shaking his head in wonder. He had thought his hat-trick was the climax. But England weren't done. This was a statement, a message sent to every other team in the tournament: underestimate us, and this is what happens.
Behind him, Hodgson finally allowed himself a smile. His arms crossed, he muttered to his assistant, "That's the response I wanted. Ruthless."
The final minutes ticked away with England in full command. Vardy pressed every clearance, Sturridge twisted defenders with every touch, Wilshere demanded the ball at every turn. Wales, battered and beaten, tried to keep their heads, but their attacks were half-hearted now, their movement dulled by resignation.
Bale, still running, still fighting, attempted one last curling free kick from thirty yards in the 88th minute. It flew over the wall with menace, but Hart, as if determined to cap his own fine performance, leapt and tipped it over. Even Bale's magic had been smothered by the weight of England's day.
The fourth official's board went up: +3 minutes. The England fans booed, but only in jest. Nothing could undo what had been done.
Francesco leaned forward on the bench, eyes still fixed on the pitch. His legs twitched as if they still wanted to run. His heart still hammered with every pass, every tackle, every roar.
And then — the whistle.
Peep! Peep! Peep!
Full time.
England 5 – 1 Wales.
The explosion was immediate. Players hugged, fists pumped, fans screamed. Rooney raised his arms to the sky, Alli sprinted toward the stands, Sturridge performed his dance with a grin wider than the Thames. Vardy pointed toward the fans, chest heaving with pride.
And Francesco.
He rose slowly from the bench, jacket slipping from his shoulders, and walked onto the pitch as if floating. His teammates found him instantly, pulling him into their celebrations, clapping his back, tugging at his shirt. "Hat-trick hero!" they shouted.
________________________________________________
Name : 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, and 2015/2016 Champions League
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: 2
Goal: 5
Assist: 1
MOTM: 1
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9