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Chapter 93: The Voice Of The Training Ground
🕑 Added 2025-07-14 14:34:27 +0000 UTCIn the 30th round of the Premier League, Arsenal cruised to a comfortable away win over Swansea.
Throughout the match, Kai seemed to be in no rush, playing with a calm, almost leisurely rhythm.
Swansea, truth be told, didn't show much fight. That made it easier for Arsenal, who barely had to shift out of second gear.
And really, it was understandable. By this stage of the season, 30 games in, a lot had already been decided.
Especially for a side like Swansea, stuck mid-table with nothing to gain and nothing much to lose.
Sitting ninth in the standings, they were in no real danger of relegation, but also nowhere near a European spot. On top of that, they'd already been knocked out of the FA Cup.
For all intents and purposes, their season was over.
In that kind of situation, it's hard to find motivation. Why throw yourself into the fire when it won't change anything? Better to coast through the final weeks and come back fresh next year.
That lack of urgency made things much easier for Arsenal.
Oddly enough, Arsenal have a tougher time against relegation battlers — those desperate teams willing to throw everything at survival.
It's not unusual in the Premier League to see a bottom-table side pull off a dramatic late-season upset.
But tonight, there was none of that. Arsenal's 90-minute job was met at the final whistle with a chorus of boos raining down from the Liberty Stadium stands.
"Pathetic! Not even trying out there!"
"Where's the fight? Useless!"
"That was a disgrace! A f**king disgrace!"
"Get off the pitch! You're embarrassing us!"
The home crowd vented furiously, and Kai noticed the Swansea players trudging off with grim expressions. But what could they do? They'd lost — simple as that.
On Arsenal's end, the mood was much more relaxed.
The travelling Gunners fans, who'd made the long trip to Wales, applauded and sang in good spirits.
After all, even after their Champions League exit, Arsenal's league form had been red-hot.
With just eight games left, the only real challenge standing in their way now looked to be Manchester United.
If they kept this momentum, the title was still very much in play.
Compared to their shaky early-season form, Arsenal's late surge had been nothing short of sensational.
"Hey! Over here!"
"Kai! Give us the fist pump."
The away fans were calling for him to do his trademark three-punch celebration.
Kai just gave a wry smile and shook his head, waving them off.
No way he was going to celebrate that flamboyantly on someone else's turf — he wasn't looking to get jumped on his way out.
The fans groaned good-naturedly, but he just grinned and turned away, catching sight of Nacho Monreal quietly sipping water by the touchline.
Monreal, a mild-mannered Spanish full-back, had been a deadline-day signing in the winter window.
He'd only been at the club a month or so and got his chance tonight after Vermaelen went down injured.
Kai felt like crying just thinking about it — another one of Arsenal's seemingly endless injuries.
Cazorla and Arteta had only just returned, and now Vermaelen was sidelined.
At least Monreal had stepped up nicely tonight.
He was a soft-spoken guy, but on the pitch, he'd quietly put in some crucial defensive work.
Kai walked over and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey — how'd your debut feel?"
Monreal looked up, startled for a second to see Kai — the de facto leader of the dressing room — addressing him.
"Not bad," he replied, smiling in halting English.
Kai nodded. "Good. Keep it up. But speak up more out there. Don't worry about stepping on toes — nobody's gonna bite your head off. You just got here, sure, but you're one of us now. The guys back you."
Monreal clearly didn't understand every word, but he caught the warmth in Kai's tone and grinned brightly.
"Thank you! You… good man!"
Kai froze for a beat, then smirked faintly. "Come on, let's get inside."
They walked into the tunnel together, and as soon as they stepped into the locker room, Kai was greeted by the sight of a crowd of teammates huddled around Chamberlain, all peering at his phone.
Didn't take a genius to guess they were checking the table again.
He groaned. "Why do you guys keep staring at it? You think United are just gonna hand us the title?"
Chamberlain turned around, said with a frown "United won again."
Kai spread his hands. "See?"
"But…" Chamberlain added with a sly smile. "City lost."
Kai blinked, straightened up, and strode over. "Wait — City lost again? To whom?"
Chamberlain flashed a victory sign. "Everton."
The table on the screen read:
1: Manchester United — 23-3-4, 72 points
2: Arsenal — 20-5-5, 65 points
3: Manchester City — 17-8-9, 59 points
Kai grinned. "Alright then… game on."
—
At training the next day, the atmosphere was just as intense.
"Push up! Don't switch off!"
"Arteta, keep moving!"
"Block the run! Close down!"
"Monreal — talk! Don't stay silent!"
The shouts echoed across the pitch, cutting through the crisp morning air.
No need to look to know whose voice it was.
It was Kai's.
The Arsenal players were used to it by now.
That voice — cutting through the din of training, barking instructions, reminding them what to do — was always there.
And, truth be told, they didn't mind. It gave the sessions life. Energy.
Compared to the dull atmospheres of some other clubs, Arsenal's training ground was vibrant, even intense.
On the sidelines, Wenger watched quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as his eyes followed Kai across the pitch. There was something about the young man that pleased him deeply.
Standing nearby, Vermaelen was going through light rehab drills. His injury didn't confine him to a hospital bed, but heavy exertion was out of the question for now.
He glanced at the field, then at Wenger, his expression thoughtful.
"Coach," he began, "you still haven't named the second and third captains. You can't just keep rotating the armband when I'm not around, can you?"
Wenger didn't look away from the pitch. "No rush."
Vermaelen chuckled, shaking his head. "You're waiting, aren't you? Let me guess — you're planning to announce it next season. And you're thinking about Kai, right? What are you aiming for? Third captain? Or second?"
Finally, Wenger turned to meet his gaze, his voice calm but firm.
"Why not first?"
Vermaelen froze, his smile faltering.
It wasn't impossible.
Not with Wenger.
After all, he'd once shocked everyone by selling Patrick Vieira outright, just to hand the captaincy to a young Fabregas.
Vermaelen prided himself on his leadership, but compared to what Vieira had meant to Arsenal… well, it was humbling.
Seeing the stiffness in Vermaelen's expression, Wenger gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"There's still time," he said softly.
Vermaelen fell silent.
But he didn't — couldn't — deny it.
A few moments later, Wenger clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.
"Alright, lads! That's it for today. The following players report to the team manager's office: Vermaelen, Suarez, Arteta, and Kai. Martin Hughes will brief you there."
The players gathered around as the session ended, and after a quick shower, Vermaelen led the four of them to the office building.
Suarez, still towel-drying his hair, frowned.
"What's this about, anyway? Why us?"
Kai shook his head with a shrug. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
At the entrance to the building, they found Martin Hughes already waiting for them.
"Finally," he said with a grin. "Come with me."
Out front, a black team van was idling. Martin waved them in as he climbed aboard himself.
As they settled into the seats, Kai gave him a quizzical look.
"So… what exactly are we doing?"
Martin glanced back with a chuckle.
"Didn't Prof tell you? Figures. We're shooting a new poster."
"A poster?" Kai blinked, confused. "What kind of poster?"
Martin grinned.
"Well, after Van Persie left so abruptly, we never updated the big electronic board at the stadium. It's been showing just the badge all season. Time to fix that — with you four front and centre."
Kai stared.
"You mean… the main entrance? The Emirates?"
Martin nodded.
"That's right."
Kai sat back, stunned.
Just last year, he'd stood outside that very stadium, wondering if he'd ever see himself on that wall.
And now, here he was — being driven to his photo shoot.
The studio was already set up when they arrived.
The four of them changed into their full kits and lined up under the photographer's direction.
"Alright, lads — back to the camera, arms over each other's shoulders. Pairs. That's it."
Arteta stood beside Vermaelen; Kai linked up with Suarez.
And yet… there was a subtle tension in the air between Vermaelen and Kai.
The shutter clicked.
That evening, the giant digital board at the Emirates flickered to life with a brand-new image:
A massive, seven-metre-wide, four-metre-high poster.
In the centre, the proud Arsenal crest.
On either side, the quartet of Arteta, Vermaelen, Kai, and Suarez — arms over each other's shoulders, backs to the entrance, standing tall like warriors heading into battle.
And above them, a single line in bold white letters:
Victoria Concordia Crescit.
