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Chapter 102: FA Cup Final
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 17:17:19 +0000 UTCSaturday, May 11, 2013 — 1:00 PM, London Time
London had been caught in a stretch of gloomy weather lately. Light rain had drizzled for three days straight, clinging to the air like a damp curtain.
Billy sat in the passenger seat, gazing out at the misty rain. The skies were heavy and gray, the droplets tracing slow, winding paths down the car window, blurring the world outside.
“What miserable weather to play a final in,” Billy muttered, exhaling a long breath.
At the wheel, Meadows glanced over with a smile. “Don’t let it get to you.”
“I know,” Billy said with a half-smile, pressing a palm against his chest. His heart was still thumping.
“It’s just... nine years, man. Nine long years since we were last here.”
“2006,” he added, voice trailing slightly. “Back then, we all thought Arsenal would be regulars at Wembley. But this—this is the first time we’ve made it back since.”
He paused, then muttered, “And we’ve gone seven of those years without a single trophy.”
Meadows didn’t say anything, eyes focused on the road.
“Turn on the radio, will you? This weather’s messing with my head,” Billy said, rubbing his temples.
“Sure thing,” Meadows replied, flicking on the radio. “Just breathe, mate.”
A crisp female voice came through the speakers:
“ The City Hall has announced that due to the 2012/2013 FA Cup Final between Arsenal and Manchester City at 5:00 PM, traffic around the White Horse Bridge leading to Wembley will be restricted starting at 3:00 PM. Please plan accordingly. And now, your London weather forecast…”
Billy stared ahead, then suddenly asked, “Hey… do you think we can win it this time?”
Meadows kept his eyes on the road. “Yes.”
“You sound pretty confident,” Billy said, surprised.
Meadows grinned. “This isn’t the same Arsenal.”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“No explanation needed,” Meadows replied. “We’re winning. Simple as that.”
Billy was quiet for a moment, then chuckled and reached over, slamming the horn.
BEEEEP!!
On the road, cars stretch as far as the eye can see. Arsenal flags wave proudly from windows. Some fans lean out of sunroofs, arms wide, belting out the Arsenal anthem.
They’re all wearing black away kits — proud, defiant.
They are Arsenal fans.
They’re here. And they’re ready.
...
Arsenal Training Centre
Inside the changing room, Kai methodically packed his bag. His expression was calm, even stoic — but his heart was racing.
The FA Cup Final.
This was only his second season at Arsenal, and already, he was at Wembley.
If things went well today, this could be his first title with the club.
The thought alone made his pulse hammer in his chest.
He took a deep breath and lightly patted his cheeks, trying to shake off the nerves.
Zip.
Kai pulled the zipper closed, slung the bag over his shoulder, and walked out.
Waiting by the team bus, Wenger stood holding an umbrella. One by one, he greeted each player with a high-five and a few words of encouragement.
“Suarez, I’ve got a feeling you’ll score twice today.”
“Cazorla, you’re flying right now, keep it going.”
“Arteta — trust yourself. You’re still one of the best playmakers in the league.”
Then it was Kai’s turn.
Wenger didn’t say a word at first. He simply pulled him into a firm hug and clapped him hard on the back.
“Kid — believe in yourself.”
Kai nodded.
Wenger met his eyes and smiled before moving on to the next player.
The squad boarded the bus, coaching staff and all.
Inside, it was unusually quiet. No chatter. No banter.
Kai took the seat at the back. He leaned his head against the seat in front of him, trying to steady himself. Find his rhythm.
Time passed. He wasn’t sure how long.
Then, a rising swell of noise filtered through the windows.
Cheers, singing — then a full, roaring chorus.
Kai lifted his head and looked out.
There it was: a massive oval stadium, crowned by that unmistakable arch slicing across the sky.
Wembley.
The bus rolled to a stop at one of the entrances. Wenger stood up and addressed the team.
“No interviews. No media stops. Straight into the stadium. Got it?”
“Understood,” the players replied in unison.
Wenger nodded and stepped off the bus first.
As they disembarked, a tidal wave of cheers erupted from the crowd.
But when Kai appeared, the roar grew louder.
Fans called out his name again and again, voices ringing across the London sky.
He gave a wave to fans, which drew more shouts.
...
The Arsenal squad filed into the Wembley dressing room. The distant noise of 90,000 fans was muted by the thick walls, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional squeaks of trainers on tile.
The air was warm, heavy with nervous energy.
The players scattered to their benches, each retreating into their little pre-match worlds. Bags thumped to the floor. Zippers hissed. Jerseys were laid out neatly, boots placed side by side.
Suarez sat in the corner, as he always did, and pulled out a framed photo of his family with the words, “Always with you, we love you.” His eyes shut as he murmured a prayer in Spanish. Next to him, Arteta laced his boots with practiced precision, checking each knot twice.
Cazorla, already in his base layer, hummed a tune under his breath as he stretched his legs on the floor. At the far end, Theo Walcott slipped his noise-cancelling headphones on and leaned back, eyes closed.
In the middle of it all, Kai sat calmly on the edge of his bench, taping his wrists and watching the room.
It was tense, not frantic, but tight. A final. Wembley. Everyone could feel it.
The physio came around with tubs of vaseline, foam rollers, and tape, making quiet offers. Kai gently waved him off — already sorted.
Wenger, noticing the tension, stood up.
He clapped his hands lightly to draw them in. Not a speech — just steady words, even and calm.
“Alright, lads. Everything that needs saying has been said, everything that needs doing has been done. The rest… is yours now.”
In the locker room, Wenger stood before the squad, his calm gaze sweeping across each player. “I won’t pretend this isn’t pressure. It is. But that’s what finals are. Only one team leaves here as champions — make sure it’s you.”
He paused, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “I don’t know what fate has in store, but I choose to believe it’s something good.”
He gave an approving clap of his hands. “Alright, boys. Time to go. Time to step onto your battlefield.”
Pat Rice gave Kai a pat on the shoulder as he passed. Arteta rose first with a shout, leading the way out of the room, the rest of Arsenal following close behind.
Kai walked into the tunnel, his head slightly lowered as he adjusted his socks. He tugged them down, checked the blue-and-pink Kinesio tape stretched in a Y-shape from his knees to his calves, smoothed it with his fingers, then rolled his socks back up. The same tape ran over his bare feet — every detail meant to guard against injury.
Satisfied, he straightened and looked ahead. The players from both teams were already lined up, ready to emerge. Beyond the archway waited the deafening roar of Wembley.
This was the FA Cup final. The crown of English domestic football. Arsenal and Manchester City. Only one would leave with the trophy.
Kai let out a long, controlled breath just as the line ahead began moving. He stepped forward in rhythm, his gaze fixed on the light spilling from the end of the tunnel.
...
On Sky Sports, Martin Taylor’s voice cut through the murmur of the stadium.
“Welcome to the 2012/2013 FA Cup Final: Arsenal versus Manchester City. A packed Wembley awaits.”
Alan Smith chuckled lightly. “You can feel the nerves already, Martin. Seven years without a trophy — Arsenal fans are desperate to see their side lift silverware tonight. Can they do it tonight against the reigning EPL Champions?”
Taylor nodded. “And why not? This Arsenal team has shown incredible resilience all season, especially through that 13-match unbeaten run to inch closer to Man United in the league campaign. You can’t help but admire their spirit.”
“Indeed,” Smith agreed. “They’ve grown into something special over these last few months.”
The camera cut to the teams lining up. Starting elevens flashed on screen:
Arsenal (4-2-3-1)
Goalkeeper: Szczesny.
Defenders: Sagna, Mertesacker, Koscielny, Monreal.
Def. Midfielders: Arteta (C), Kai,
Att. Midfielders: Cazorla, Podolski, Walcott.
Striker: Suarez.
Manchester City (4-4-2)
Goalkeeper: Joe Hart.
Defenders: Zabaleta, Kompany (C), Nastasić, Clichy.
Midfielders: Yaya Touré, Barry, Nasri, David Silva.
Forwards: Tevez, Agüero.
Both captains met at the center circle for the coin toss. City won and chose to take the opening kick.
Kai jogged into Arsenal’s half, loosening his shoulders, keeping his eyes on City’s lineup. They were formidable — no illusions about that. But so was the mood among the Gunners. Morale was high. They believed.
Arsenal were ready.
The light rain continued to fall, drumming on the pitch, but it did nothing to dampen the roar of the crowd. Chants of “Go on, Arsenal!” and “Victory for City!” clashed in the air.
Referee Andre Marriner stepped out of the center circle — the signal to begin.
Kai wiped a bead of rain from his cheek, his eyes sharpening. The whistle blew.
Agüero tapped the ball, and the match began.
Immediately, Arsenal surged forward, pressing high and hard, swarming like wolves. Manchester City, surprised by the intensity, opted to launch a long ball over the top toward Tevez.
Tevez positioned himself under the falling ball — only to feel a sudden, forceful shove on his back. He crouched slightly, planting his feet, and glanced behind him.
Kai was right there, leaning in, strong, relentless, jostling to force him off the landing spot. Tevez narrowed his eyes, a faint frown on his face.
