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Chapter 135: Liverpool vs Arsenal
🕑 Added 2025-08-31 15:44:00 +0000 UTC“Sterling! Down again!”
Sky Sports commentator Martin Taylor couldn’t help shake his head.
“This young winger who’s been dazing Premier League defenders week in, week out, has finally met a brick wall. His sharp bursts and low centre of gravity have been a nightmare for full-backs, but against Kai, he’s come up short every single time.”
Alan Smith chuckled beside him.
“Sterling’s been full of energy, but let’s be honest—every time he tries to take Kai on, he ends up flat on the turf. The lad just can’t match him physically. It’s like running into a wall.”
Out on the pitch, Raheem Sterling sat on the grass, arms raised as he protested towards the referee. Seeing his plead land on deaf ears, he directed his fire towards the culprit, but when Kai briefly turned his head towards him, Sterling quickly looked away, hiding his frustration. He knew deep down that picking a fight would only make things worse.
Kai exhaled slowly, relief flickering across his face. Sterling was a handful—quick feet, slippery balance, the sort of player who made defenders second-guess themselves. Compared to last season, the youngster had clearly improved. His dribbling was sharper, his turns tighter.
But, for now at least, Sterling was still that same head-down winger who often ran himself into dead ends. He wasn’t yet the complete, ruthless attacker he would one day become at Manchester City.
Arsenal, however, had problems of their own. Steven Gerrard’s dominance in midfield was suffocating Mikel Arteta. The Spaniard was struggling under the intensity, and Liverpool’s opener in the 21st minute only piled on more pressure.
With Arteta fading, more and more responsibility fell onto Kai’s shoulders. He wasn’t just breaking up attacks—he was cleaning up Arteta’s mistakes, shielding the defence, and trying to move the ball forward himself.
When Arsenal won possession again, Thomas Vermaelen fed the ball into Arteta. Almost immediately, Liverpool swarmed him. Coutinho pressed from one side, Henderson from the other. Arteta looked for options, struggling to find a forward pass.
“Here!” Kai called, bursting into space.
Arteta offloaded the ball, and within seconds, both Sterling and Coutinho were snapping at Kai’s heels. Sterling, still stung from earlier duels, seemed determined to make life miserable for him.
Kai braced himself, leaning his broad frame into Sterling and muscling him aside with ease. Sterling stumbled, unable to cope with the sheer physicality. At the same time, Kai dropped his shoulder and barged Coutinho away, carving out just enough room to slip a pass through to Cazorla.
It wasn’t pretty—no flicks, no flourishes—but it worked. Arsenal was out of trouble.
As the ball rolled away, Kai turned and shot a fierce glare at Sterling.
You’re not the only one who can throw your weight around on the floor.
On commentary, Martin Taylor let out a low laugh.
“That’s Kai for you. Arsenal’s midfield isn’t exactly famed for brute force, but this lad’s added steel they desperately need.”
Alan Smith agreed.
“He’s not the most elegant ball handler, but when Arsenal are under pressure, you need someone who can hold his ground. He’s keeping them alive out there.”
From then on, Kai became the focal point. Arsenal’s players recognized that Arteta couldn’t cope with Liverpool’s press, so they shifted responsibility onto Kai. He touched the ball constantly, recycling possession, spreading play, and giving his teammates breathing space. His organisation lacked finesse, but it was effective enough to steady the ship.
Still, the effort was draining. He was covering every blade of grass, doing the work of two men.
On the touchline, Pat Rice leaned toward Arsène Wenger.
“Kai can’t keep this up on his own. He needs help.”
Wenger’s expression was tight. Arteta’s struggles were all too familiar—he’d wilted under pressure against Gerrard last season as well, and Chelsea had exposed the same weakness earlier this year. Wenger sighed, already considering his options.
“Flamini!” he barked, turning toward the bench. “Get warm!”
With ten minutes left in the half, Arsenal’s plan was simple: hold on, stabilise, and reach the break without further damage.
Kai continued to run tirelessly, passing, tackling, and shielding. He played like both anchor and playmaker rolled into one, and although it kept Arsenal afloat, the toll on his body was clear. By the time the referee blew for half-time, his chest was heaving, sweat dripping down his face.
Arsenal had survived the storm—but at a heavy cost to their midfield powerhouse.
.
“Arteta’s gone missing in midfield, and Kai can’t be expected to carry the load all on his own!”
Sky Sports commentator Martin Taylor spoke, his tone capturing the frustration of Arsenal supporters.
Alan Smith nodded in agreement.
“Exactly. You can see it on the pitch—Liverpool’s pressing has smothered Arteta completely. Kai’s been holding things together, but it’s too much to ask one player to both protect the back line and spark attacks. Wenger has to intervene. If nothing changes, Arsenal is going to be in real trouble.”
…
Inside the Arsenal dressing room at half-time, frustration hung thick in the air. Players sat with towels draped over their heads, muttering to one another.
“The ball never makes it forward!” one snapped.
“We can’t build anything up there!” another chimed in.
“Our passing is too slow, too cautious,” came a third.
And from the defenders: “We’re under siege every time they come at us! Too much pressure!”
The noise rose and overlapped, irritation spilling over—until Kai suddenly slammed his palm against the bench.
“Enough! Quiet!” he barked.
The room froze. Even the hum of the showers in the corner seemed to fade. All eyes turned to him as he stood up, his chest still heaving from the first half.
Kai’s gaze swept across his teammates before settling on Mikel Arteta.
“Mikel, we need you in the second half. You have to stand up,” Kai said firmly, his voice carrying both urgency and expectation.
Arteta lowered his head, offering a weary, bitter smile.
“I can’t promise that, Kai,” he admitted quietly.
Kai’s frown deepened and gave it straight. “If you can’t help us, then be ready. Because we can’t carry passengers out there.”
Arteta gave a slow, resigned nod. He knew the truth of it, even if it stung.
From the corner, Arsène Wenger finally spoke, his voice measured but decisive.
“In the second half, Flamini will replace Arteta.”
He paused, letting the words sink in before turning his eyes back to Kai.
“But your role doesn’t change. You’ll take charge of the organisation.”
“Me?” Kai blinked, his brow furrowing. He was honest enough to admit the doubt. “Boss, I’m not sure I can…”
Wenger cut him off, his tone sharpening.
“Yes, you can. Flamini will support you, but he’s not the one to dictate play. If we’re going to win this match, Kai, you need to rise to Gerrard’s level in that position.”
The weight of the challenge landed heavy. Gerrard—the heartbeat of Liverpool, a leader, a talisman. To match him felt almost impossible. Kai’s expression tightened, his lips pressing into a hard line. But he didn’t protest further.
The squad began to quiet down, settling into their recovery routines, sipping water, catching their breath. But at the back of the room, Pat Rice leaned toward Wenger, lowering his voice.
“Arsène, isn’t this asking too much of him? He’s still young.”
Wenger shook his head.
“He won’t grow without being tested under pressure.”
Pat wasn’t convinced. “But it’s a massive burden. We could let Flamini take charge of organising, and leave Kai to focus on breaking lines and making those key passes like he usually does.”
“No,” Wenger replied firmly. “Kai will be better in this role.”
Pat raised an eyebrow. “Better? Why?”
A faint smile tugged at Wenger’s lips.
“Because, Pat, Kai and Gerrard share a lot of qualities—bravery, stubbornness, sheer willpower. But there’s a crucial difference between them.”
“And that is?”
“Gerrard is, at heart, an individualist. When he passes, it’s often brilliant improvisation—but it can also stray from the tactical system. When it works, it’s magic. When it doesn’t, it leaves his team exposed. Kai is the opposite. He’s a team player, through and through.”
Pat tilted his head, curious. Wenger leaned in, his voice warm with conviction.
“Kai’s strength is that he unites people. He takes whatever pieces he’s given and makes them fit together. Walcott is the clearest example. I was close to giving up on him, but now look—Theo’s still a starter, and he’s thriving. Why? Because Kai plays to his strengths.”
Pat thought for a moment before murmuring, “So it’s because of Kai?”
“Exactly.” Wenger’s eyes lit up. “People think his passing looks ordinary, but they don’t realize how precise it is. He always delivers the ball where his teammate is most comfortable.”
He gestured with his hands as he explained.
“Walcott thrives on space, so Kai feeds him balls in behind. Cazorla has quick feet and can beat a man—Kai finds him early, bypassing the midfield so Santi can face defenders directly. And Suarez? He and Kai don’t combine often, but when they do, it’s almost always decisive. Look at the numbers—every time they link up, it ends in a goal.”
Pat’s jaw slackened slightly. He’d never thought about it that way.
Wenger, however, had noticed everything. He leaned back, his expression softening.
“Do you know what I value most about Kai?”
“His tackling? His passing?” Pat ventured.
Wenger shook his head gently.
“No. It’s the transformation he’s brought to the team. Kai connects all eleven players on the pitch. Arsenal looks more like a unit now, not because they suddenly trust each other more, but because there’s a glue binding them together.”
He smiled faintly.
“That glue is Kai.”
