GRANDMAESTA_30
patreon
Chapter 139: Steady Wins The Race
🕑 Added 2025-09-04 15:53:00 +0000 UTC“Ah, what a pity for Arsenal! They just couldn’t hold on in Dortmund tonight. Jürgen Klopp’s side have taken it, two goals to one here at Signal Iduna Park. Both sides now sit level on points, though Arsenal just edge top spot by virtue of goal difference—for the moment at least.”
Martin Taylor’s voice carried the final note of the match as the Sky Sports cameras panned across the yellow wall of Dortmund fans, bouncing and singing in full voice.
Alan Smith added with a sigh, “Arsenal played some lovely football going forward, especially through the middle, but defensively they just came apart. You can’t gift chances like that at this level. Gibbs and Koscielny looked unsettled all evening, and in the end, Dortmund punished them.”
With those words, the fourth round of the Champions League group stage came to an end.
It had been a breathless ninety minutes. Arsenal had passed with fluency, linked well in attack, and even stretched Dortmund at times, but at the back, they had creaked badly. Gibbs and Koscielny both endured torrid nights, their errors leaving spaces that Reus, Lewandowski, and Götze happily exploited.
Kai had battled tirelessly, covering every blade of grass, throwing himself into tackles, cajoling teammates forward. Yet even his tireless interventions could not completely shield the back line. Time and again, Dortmund poured through as if the Arsenal defence was made of paper.
When the whistle went, the home supporters were in delirium. Yellow scarves twirled in the air, and the Südtribüne swayed as chants rolled like thunder across the ground.
Kai stood in the middle of it all, hands on his hips, breathing heavily. His gaze drifted toward Koscielny, who stood with shoulders slumped, and then to Gibbs, who stared blankly at the turf. They both looked like men lost in thought, as though sleepwalking through a nightmare they couldn’t shake.
We were sharp in the first two group matches, Kai thought bitterly. Then suddenly—this. Form is fickle, yes, but we can’t afford switches like this, not here.
It was Arsenal’s first defeat of the Champions League campaign, and the table was suddenly wide open. Dortmund had pulled level on points. Only a slim advantage in goal difference kept Arsenal on top of the group.
Just as Kai turned to head for the tunnel, a hand tapped his shoulder. He spun and found Marco Reus smiling, holding out his jersey.
“Swap?” Reus asked.
Kai’s frustration softened. He managed a tired smile and nodded. The two exchanged shirts, draping them over their shoulders.
“You lot played very well,” Kai said, his voice low but respectful.
Reus replied in halting English, his grin widening, “You… give us many problems.”
Kai shrugged, a wry chuckle escaping him. “But we still lost.”
Reus tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Maybe one day… you play for Dortmund?”
For a second, Kai was caught off guard. He saw the sincerity in Reus’s face—not just rivalry, but genuine admiration. Despite the night’s battle, there was a sense of kinship between them.
Kai answered with a grin of his own. “Or maybe you come to Arsenal. London wouldn’t be a bad place for you.”
They both laughed, bumping fists in mutual respect.
“Good luck in the knockouts,” Reus said.
“You too,” Kai replied before they headed their separate ways.
..
Inside the Arsenal dressing room, the atmosphere was heavy. The players sat in silence, heads bowed, boots unlaced slowly. Defeat drains the life out of a squad like little else.
Kai quickly noticed the absence of Koscielny and Gibbs. Wenger must have pulled them aside. When the manager finally entered, both defenders followed him in, their faces marked by awkward half-smiles—clear signs they’d been on the receiving end of a stern lecture.
Wenger clapped his hands sharply to cut through the gloom. “Alright, everyone. No point dwelling. We won’t linger in Germany. Bags packed—straight back to London tonight. Get yourselves ready.”
There were no objections, only silent nods. The players began folding kits, tossing boots into bags, and packing up in subdued quiet. The energy of match day was gone, replaced by the flatness of defeat.
By the time the team coach rolled back into London Colney, it was already past ten at night. Wenger, knowing the toll of travel and competition, dismissed them without a word. “Go home. Rest.”
…
The following morning began with light training, a routine designed to shake the stiffness from the legs. But the afternoon brought no escape. Wenger herded the full squad into the tactical room, where clips of the Dortmund game flickered onto the screen.
What followed was nearly four hours of dissection. Wenger rewound sequences, paused frames, and explained in meticulous detail—where passes had gone astray, where pressing had been half-hearted, where the defensive line had sagged too deep.
“Here—look at the spacing,” Wenger would say, tapping the screen. “Kai cannot cover three men alone. We need Gibbs tighter, Koscielny more alert. These moments cost us.”
The players listened intently, heads nodding, some taking notes. Mistakes were laid bare, but so were positives. Wenger pointed out combinations that worked, transitions that unsettled Dortmund, and praised Kai and Fernando for their relentless energy.
Each player was asked to reflect on their own performance, and slowly, conversations opened. Honest admissions were made, heads were lifted. The session was long and grueling, but necessary.
When they finally emerged from the tactical room, the late afternoon sky had turned crimson. Night crept in as the players filed out, climbing into their cars one by one.
Most headed home, eager to rest and reset.
But not Kai.
He lingered at the training base, walking purposefully toward the equipment room. His body ached, but his mind was restless.
When he reached the heavy door, he pushed against it.
It didn’t budge.
Locked again.
Kai let out a small grin, shaking his head. “Figures.”
And instead of leaving, he turned toward the training pitch.
But this didn’t stop Kai. Determined, he fetched a ball himself.
He jogged into the locker room, pulled one from the storage shelf, and returned to the training pitch.
By then, the night had deepened. The floodlights were still off, and the training ground was cloaked in shadow by the few light sources available.
Kai dropped the ball at his feet, gently knocking it back and forth to find rhythm. Each touch echoed faintly in the quiet.
Then, with a sudden hum, the entire pitch lit up in an instant.
Kai squinted at the brightness. “I knew it…” he muttered.
A voice came from the sidelines, carrying a hint of amusement.
“You can’t hide from me, lad.”
Kai turned his head. Leaning against the doorway was Arsenal’s long-serving equipment manager, Paul Johnson, watching him with a knowing smile.
Kai looked faintly embarrassed. Caught again.
But instead of scolding, Paul strolled forward and beckoned. “Go on then, knock it here.”
Kai raised an eyebrow but nudged the ball across.
With surprising ease, Paul killed it under his left boot, circled it with his right, and began juggling. His touches were tidy, sharp even—reminiscent of someone who hadn’t entirely lost his feel for the game.
After about ten keep-ups, though, his breathing grew heavy. The ball dropped, rolling back to Kai.
Paul chuckled, bending over slightly. “Ah, I’m really getting old. Thirty years ago, I had lungs for this. Played a few years myself, you know. Colchester United—back when they were in the old Third Division. Nothing glamorous, but we fought hard. They’ve climbed a bit since then, even sniffed the Championship.”
Kai nodded. He knew well enough: in England, the pyramid was filled with thousands chasing the dream. Very few ever reached the top league. For every legend, there were countless Pauls—talented, but not destined for the Emirates, Old Trafford, or Anfield.
Paul walked closer, lowering his tone. “Been here since ’86, lad. Arsenal’s my home. Twenty-seven years in this place. I’ve seen faces come and go, legends rise and fade.”
His eyes gleamed as memories stirred. “I saw Bergkamp transform us. I shouted myself hoarse for every Henry goal. Fabregas… ah, he’ll always be a bittersweet story for us. And that night in Paris, the Champions League final—we were so close.”
Kai stayed quiet, listening.
Paul’s gaze hardened. “I know what you’re doing, Kai. You’re pushing yourself too much. Wanting to grow faster than time will allow. It doesn’t work that way. Shortcuts in this game? They don’t exist.”
Kai gave a small, wry smile, but Paul pressed on.
“I was against Arsène heaping too much on your shoulders so soon. I’ve watched too many bright lads burn out. You’re not arrogant, that’s not the problem. You’re stubborn. You take everything on yourself—responsibility, expectation, the weight of the badge—like you have to carry it alone.”
Paul beckoned Kai to sit with him on one of the benches.
Paul’s voice softened. “But you’re nineteen, son. Nineteen. You don’t need to be the pillar yet. We’ve got Suarez, Cazorla, Walcott, Vermaelen, Arteta—you’re allowed to lean on them too. That’s what teammates are for.”
Kai let out a quiet sigh. He propped his arms back and stared at the sky.
“But we’ve still got so many problems,” he murmured.
Paul laughed. “And you think you’re going to fix them all by yourself? Don’t be daft. That’s pride talking. Arsenal isn’t there yet—we’re still missing pieces, and Arsène knows it. Trust him. That’s his burden, not yours.”
Kai turned his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “So you came all this way just to lecture me?”
Paul shook his head. “No, I came because I’d like to get some sleep. You’re always first in, last out. Why do you think I keep locking the storage room?”
Kai smirked. “Didn’t stop me this morning.”
Paul threw his hands up. “Because I overslept! Don’t think you’re clever sneaking in.”
Kai chuckled, and Paul grumbled, though there was no real anger in it. He dusted off his trousers and stood. “Listen, lad, starting tomorrow—no more of this nonsense. Don’t let me catch you out here at dawn again, or I’ll kick your backside.”
Kai laughed. “What if I show up at six?”
Paul shot him a glare.
“Seven?” Kai tried again, weaker this time.
Paul just crossed his arms, stone-faced.
“Alright, eight then,” Kai relented, raising his hands in surrender. “That’s the latest, promise.”
Paul finally nodded. “Eight it is. But if I’m staying an extra hour because of you, someone better be paying me overtime.”
Kai scratched his cheek sheepishly. “You can take it out of my wages.”
“Get stuffed!” Paul barked, turning away with a grin. “Now clear off and get some proper rest. I swear, if you keep me from locking up, I’ll be in Arsène’s office tomorrow morning filing a complaint.”
Kai scrambled up, still laughing, and jogged back toward the changing rooms.
Paul lingered a moment, watching the youngster’s figure fade into the tunnel. His expression softened.
Looking up at the floodlit sky, he let out a chuckle. “Three generations of Gunners since becoming Invincibles I’ve seen come through… Let’s see what surprises this lot brings. I’m more curious than ever.”
