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Chapter 146: Dinner With The Next Generation
🕑 Added 2025-09-19 15:17:00 +0000 UTCIn the city, Wang Yi had been driving for over an hour before finally pulling up in front of a shop with a striking red signboard.
La Mei Zi – Authentic Sichuan Cuisine.
Kai stepped out of the car, tilting his head slightly as he read the sign.
"Sichuan restaurant?" he asked with a hint of curiosity.
Wang Yi climbed out of the driver's seat, and it was only then that Kai noticed just how tall he was. Kodak stood at about 1.85 meters, but Wang Yi was clearly half a head taller—easily pushing 1.9 meters.
With a laugh, Wang Yi patted his chest. "I'm a Sichuan native myself. Thought I'd bring you to the real deal."
Kai grinned and gave him a once-over. "A southern guy with a northern frame, huh."
"Come on, let's head inside," Wang Yi chirped, waving him in.
The restaurant was buzzing. Even though it wasn't peak mealtime, several tables were still occupied, with the sound of clinking chopsticks and the spicy aroma of chilies filling the air.
As they entered, Wang Yi called out in a thick Sichuan accent, "Old man, I'm here with a friend! Any chance we can get a private room?"
A man in his fifties, wearing a slightly stained apron, emerged from the kitchen and barked back, "Private room? Why hide away? Just find a table outside!"
Wang Yi leaned towards Kai with a mischievous grin. "We've got a distinguished guest today, Dad. He deserves better."
The moment his father's eyes landed on Kai, he froze for half a second before exclaiming, "Well, I'll be damned! Isn't this Kai? What a rare guest!"
Kai quickly extended his hand, but Wang Yi's father brushed it aside and instead clapped him heartily on the shoulder, his grin widening.
Wang Yi chuckled and made the introductions. "This is my dad."
"Hello, uncle," Kai greeted politely.
"Ah, hello, hello!" the old man said warmly. "Come on then, we can't just let you sit anywhere. The private room, it is. Follow me."
Once seated, Wang Yi's father continued to shower Kai with praise as he poured tea.
"Xiao Kai, what a shame you couldn't play in the Asian qualifiers. With you in the squad, the national team would've looked much stronger. I watch your Arsenal matches every chance I get—you've got a real bite in midfield, much more exciting than watching my own lad here!"
Kai chuckled awkwardly, bowing his head a little. Wang Yi's father carried on chatting for a bit before excusing himself to head back into the kitchen.
As soon as the door closed, Kai exhaled in relief.
Wang Yi smirked. "Don't mind him. He's just too hospitable—and truth be told, he's a genuine fan of yours."
Kai raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Of course," Wang Yi replied matter-of-factly. "Do you have any idea how valuable you are? For years, our midfield has been fragile. Without stability there, the whole side crumbles."
He leaned back and folded his arms. "Back in my playing days, our matches were all about lumping the ball forward and then chasing after it. It was crude, almost like street football. Most tactics didn't matter because we simply didn't have the kind of player to knit the game together."
"When Liangzi got his chance in the Premier League, the whole country pinned its hopes on him. But he never quite delivered. It was a crushing disappointment—not just for the fans, but for people like me who had lived the game."
He gave a wry smile. "Then you came along out of nowhere. When you nailed down your starting spot at Arsenal, my old mentor, Coach Liu Hongbo, actually rang me late at night. He sounded like a kid unwrapping a New Year's gift."
Kai blinked. "Coach Liu?"
"Yeah, Liu Hongbo. He was my guiding hand when I came through youth training. He's one of the architects behind the system that produced your generation."
Wang Yi took a sip of tea before continuing. "The truth is, your generation represents the first proper wave of structured youth development in China. Sure, you were technically under the FA, but the General Administration of Sport was still pulling the strings. I bet you had all those physical benchmarks during training, too, right?"
Kai nodded. "Four hundred meters, eight laps, under thirteen minutes. Standard test."
"Exactly. We only had the three-thousand-meter run back then," Wang Yi said with a chuckle. "Seems like your fitness expectations were a notch higher."
Before long, steaming plates began to fill the table—boiled pork slices swimming in chili oil, fiery spicy chicken, shredded pork with garlic sauce, and, of course, classic Kung Pao chicken. Wang Yi's father even prepared a Northeastern specialty—sweet and sour pork—just for Kai.
Kai's eyes lit up at the sight. It had been nearly a year since he'd last had authentic Chinese food. He dug in with gusto, spooning rice into his bowl and pairing it with dish after dish. Each bite reminded him of home, and he couldn't help but smile between mouthfuls.
Wang Yi and his father watched with satisfaction. The meal stretched on until Kai finally leaned back, stuffed but happy.
Later, Wang Yi dropped him off at his hotel.
"Next May, then," he said with a wave.
Then, more seriously, he added, "And promise me—stay injury-free this time."
Kai nodded with a grin. "I'll do my best."
After watching Wang Yi drive off, Kai headed inside to check in. The hotel, run by Golden Globe magazine, already had its booking. As soon as he mentioned his name at the reception, a staff member escorted him up to the thirteenth floor.
His room was modest but comfortable. After a quick rinse in the bathroom, he changed into casual clothes, ready to wind down.
But before he could settle, there came a knock at the door.
Kai opened it to find a tall, broad-shouldered man grinning back at him.
"Lukaku?" Kai asked, a little surprised.
The Belgian forward broke into a smile and extended his hand. The two shaked briefly.
"We're having a little dinner downstairs," Lukaku said. "You should join us."
"We?" Kai tilted his head.
Lukaku chuckled. "The best young talents in Europe. Turns out most of us are staying in the same hotel."
Kai's eyes widened slightly as the pieces clicked. "Ah, I see. When's it starting?"
"Right now."
Without hesitation, Kai nodded. "Alright, let's go."
They headed down together. In the hotel's ground-floor restaurant, a group of nine players had already formed a circle, laughing and chatting animatedly.
As Kai and Lukaku entered, one of the players stood to greet them.
It was Luke Shaw.
"Good to see you, Kai!" Shaw said warmly.
Kai smiled and returned the greeting. "Good to see you too."
Luke Shaw, the young full-back from Southampton, sat among the group. He was only a year younger than Kai, but their trajectories couldn't have been more different. While Kai had already established himself as Arsenal's vice-captain, Shaw was still very much in the proving stage of his career—talented, yes, but not yet tested at the very highest level.
Shaw gave a cheeky grin and leaned over. "Oi, next round's our match. You're not going to flatten me like you did Sterling, are you?"
Raheem Sterling, seated nearby, turned his head with an unimpressed frown. "Hey, that's not funny."
The table chuckled. Kai shook his head, smiling. "Relax. Chances are, our positions won't even clash. You'll be fine."
Before Sterling could respond, Romelu Lukaku, brimming with energy, cut in. "Speaking of matches, don't forget—we just held Arsenal to a draw last round!"
Lukaku, out on loan at Everton that season, had faced Kai's Arsenal only a few weeks earlier.
Luke Shaw smirked and asked bluntly, "Yeah, but did you score?"
The jab landed. Lukaku's grin faltered, and he slumped back in his chair, remembering the bruising battle he'd had with Kai. The Belgian striker had spent most of the match locked in physical duels, with little to show for it on the scoresheet.
Sensing the dip in mood, Kai offered a reassuring smile. "Don't take it too hard. Strikers like you are the toughest to deal with. If I switch off for even a second, you'll have me on the ground."
Lukaku's face immediately brightened. "Really? You mean that?"
"Of course," Kai nodded. "In the Premier League, the way you hold the ball and power through defenders—it's no small thing. Trust me, nobody enjoys marking you."
That was all Lukaku needed. He straightened up, puffing his chest out again, delighted by the recognition. Compliments meant even more when they came from someone who had just kept you quiet on the pitch.
The four Premier League boys—Kai, Lukaku, Sterling, and Shaw—soon slipped into easy conversation, comparing notes, swapping banter, and teasing each other about recent matches. Around them, the others either chimed in with the odd comment or, in some cases, stayed quiet due to the language barrier. But the mood remained lively. They were all young, ambitious, and eager to connect.
And then, inevitably, Paul Pogba took center stage.
Once he got talking, he was unstoppable. Flicking at his short, bleached-white hair, he leaned across the table with theatrical flair. "Check this out. Clean, sharp, and stylish. If any of you need tips, I'm the man. Trust me, this is fashion."
Kai chuckled. "Not bad. But have you ever thought about pushing it a bit further? Red, maybe blue… even green?"
Pogba's eyes lit up like a child in a toy shop. He dragged his chair closer, lowering his voice as though confiding in a best friend. "Hey, Kai, right? Can I call you that?"
Kai shrugged casually. "Go ahead."
"Perfect. You've got the right eye. How about this—we hit the barber tomorrow together. I'll go red, you go green. Imagine the photos!" Pogba said, clapping his hands together in excitement.
Kai nearly choked on his drink. He started beating his chest comically. "No chance. Our tradition doesn't really allow for that kind of thing. Hair is something we inherit from our parents—it's not to be messed with lightly."
He shook his head firmly. "So, painting my head green? Absolutely not."
Pogba slumped back, dramatically deflated. "Fine, fine."
But Kai leaned forward again, smirking. "How about pink?"
For a moment, Pogba blinked in surprise. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. He jabbed a finger at Kai. "Now you're talking. Pink it is. You'll see—I'll try it tomorrow!"
The group erupted in laughter. The banter rolled on, drinks were poured, and although Kai politely turned down the wine offered to him, the atmosphere remained warm and carefree.
By the time the clock struck ten, yawns began to spread around the table. One by one, the players excused themselves, heading back to their rooms.
…
The next morning, Kai's internal rhythm kicked in as always. He rose early, washed up, and set out for his morning run. A quick inquiry the day before had revealed a sports field only a kilometre away from the hotel, and that was where he headed.
The track was already dotted with locals jogging in the crisp dawn air. Kai joined them, pacing himself steadily, circling the field until sweat soaked his training top. By the time he finished, the sun was only just climbing into the sky.
On his return, as he approached the hotel entrance, another door swung open a short distance away. Out stepped Lukaku, rubbing his eyes.
Their gazes met.
"You heading out for a run?" Lukaku asked, still groggy.
Kai shook his head. "Already done."
Lukaku glanced down at his watch. Six o'clock sharp. His brows knitted for a second. Kai had already trained and returned before most people had even opened their curtains.
The thought nagged at him. Kai wasn't just talented—he worked harder than most.
As the old saying went: You don't fear the genius with more talent than you; you fear the genius who also works harder than you.
