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Chapter 153: When The Past Knocks
🕑 Added 2025-09-21 15:01:40 +0000 UTCBarnett’s agency wasn’t just about brokering transfer contracts. His group handled everything from sponsorships to carefully crafted public images.
Take the image work, for example.
Barnett had decided that Kai should be packaged as the classic sunny, athletic young man.
Le Kai, soon-to-be twenty, fit that role perfectly—talented, upbeat, and brave. It was a look the European market adored.
To lock it in, Barnett even created a set of brand tags for Kai: energetic, fearless, bright.
It matched the kid’s current vibe so well that it almost wrote itself.
Once the concept was nailed down, Barnett moved fast. He lined up a feature with a London-based outlet and arranged an exclusive interview.
The session ran nearly an hour. The back-and-forth felt more like rehearsed theatre than a spontaneous chat, but the results were gold.
By the next morning, the interview was everywhere online. Kai hadn’t fully grasped how Barnett worked his magic, but the message was clear: a carefully polished image had just been launched.
…
“Sunny boy, huh?”
At Arsenal’s Colney training ground, Chamberlain frowned at the newspaper headline. “If they knew the big lad likes to swing a bat around, I wonder what they’d write.”
Kai laughed and shook his head. “If you keep quiet, nobody will think you’re daft.”
Chamberlain grinned, nodding toward Kai’s locker. “So… the bat’s still in there?”
“Do I look mad?” Kai shot back. “Why would I drag a bat to training?”
He turned to leave, but Flamini sidled up to Chamberlain with a conspiratorial whisper.
“So those rumours about the vice-captain are true?”
Chamberlain widened his eyes dramatically. “What do you think? I saw it myself. Kai walks into the underground car park with a bat and a sack. When the coaches finally show up—absolute carnage.”
“Imagine it,” he went on, lowering his voice for effect. “Stuck in a sack, no idea what’s coming next.”
Flamini winced. “That’s brutal.”
“Last season,” Chamberlain continued, “things got tense. Nobody wanted to talk. Kai strolls out of the equipment room with a cracked bat and, boom, everyone falls in line.”
Flamini squinted. “Come on, you lot outnumbered him.”
Chamberlain tapped his shoulder with mock gravity. “I guess it was from the shock?”
Flamini’s eyes lit up. “Ah… right. Of course. Makes sense now.”
Kai, blissfully unaware of the tale growing behind his back, was already focused on the afternoon grind.
.
Training these days was relentless.
First came the daily ball-control drills. Then long-range shooting. After that, coordinated offensive and defensive runs with Cazorla and either Ramsey or Flamini.
“Don’t over-dribble on the cut,” Kai reminded Cazorla as they moved into a final circuit of sprints.
Physical conditioning followed. That part was Cazorla’s idea—he wanted to match the endless engines of players like Modrić and Ramsey.
“I’ve been thinking the same,” Cazorla said between breaths. “More quick passing, less solo dribbling. We can push the tempo that way.”
Kai nodded. “Exactly.”
Cazorla’s footwork was electric, but Kai knew the risk. Too much time on the ball made him a target, and the Spaniard already absorbed more fouls than anyone in the squad.
If a heavy challenge derailed him, it would be a tragedy. A player of his Champions League calibre deserved a long career.
Kai quietly resolved to help. He joined extra drills he didn’t even need, just to keep Cazorla motivated.
Cazorla, eight years older, still couldn’t bring himself to treat Kai like a kid.
Some players grow up fast. Kai was one of them.
Arsenal was humming now, chasing silverware with genuine belief, and Kai was at the centre of it all—trusted by every teammate, trusting them back. That bond was driving their surge.
Evening settled in as Kai headed for his car. He’d barely buckled in when his phone buzzed.
Few people even had the number, and the screen showed an unfamiliar call.
He hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”
A calm voice on the other end froze him.
“Kai. I’m in London. We need to talk.”
Kai froze for a moment, recognising the voice the second it came through the line.
Robin van Persie.
He hadn’t expected a call like this.
“Where are you?” Kai asked after a brief pause.
“I’ll send you the address,” Van Persie replied, a hint of relief in his tone.
Kai jotted it down and ended the call. He wasn’t sure why the former captain wanted to meet, but it didn’t feel like a friendly catch-up.
The passenger door of his car suddenly clicked open.
Chamberlain slid in, grinning. “Go, go, go!”
Kai gave him a sidelong look. “You really need to buy your own car.”
Chamberlain only shrugged.
Half an hour later, Kai pulled into the car park of a hotel in central London.
He tugged on a baseball cap and sunglasses before stepping out and heading for the entrance.
A soft knock on a door.
A hinge creaked.
Van Persie opened it, surprise flickering across his face. “Long time no see.”
Kai forced a polite smile.
“Come in,” Van Persie said, ushering him inside and pouring a glass of water. “I’ve got to head back to Manchester tonight, so dinner’s out, I’m afraid.”
Kai took a sip and got straight to the point. “So, what’s this about?”
Van Persie drew a slow breath. “I want to come back to Arsenal.”
Kai had half expected that. He nodded slightly. “Then you’re talking to the wrong person. You should speak to the professor.”
“He won’t have me,” Van Persie said quickly. “But if you talk to him… well, he listens to you.”
Kai raised an eyebrow. “You want me to lobby for you?”
Van Persie gave a small, hopeful shrug.
“Even if the manager likes me,” Kai said evenly, “I’m not about to risk that relationship on your behalf.”
The words landed hard. Van Persie’s smile faded.
“We were teammates for a season,” he pressed. “I’m asking for a bit of help, that’s all.”
“Robin,” Kai sighed, rubbing his forehead, “you need to understand something. When you left Arsenal, certain things were set in stone.”
He leaned forward. “Maybe you don’t know this, but last year Fabregas wrote the manager a letter of apology.”
Van Persie blinked. He clearly hadn’t heard.
“The professor read it to us in full,” Kai continued. “Do you see what that means?”
Van Persie’s face tightened. “He was warning you.”
“Exactly. He was warning all of us—leave Arsenal the way you both left and be ready to live with the consequences. Yes, he likes me, but that isn’t a license for me to spend that goodwill.”
Kai let the silence hang for a moment, then added, “And to be blunt, there’s no room for you in this squad.”
Van Persie’s brow furrowed.
“I could be tactful,” Kai said, “but that might give you false hope. So here it is: between you and Suarez, who do you think the club will choose?”
The Dutchman opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Last season, he might have argued. This season, the gap was obvious.
“And there’s one more thing,” Kai said, standing. “You’re thirty now. Arsenal are building for the future, investing in younger players.”
Van Persie lowered his eyes, the weight of the words settling in.
