GRANDMAESTA_30
patreon
Chapter 99: Manchester United vs Arsenal 3
🕑 Added 2025-07-20 15:43:49 +0000 UTC“Ice pack! Someone get me an ice pack!”
Kai stormed into the locker room, calling out toward the staff.
Pat quickly handed one over without saying a word.
Kai slumped onto the bench, pressing the pack to his thigh, but it didn’t seem to help much. Frowning, he tore open the pack, dumped the ice cubes straight into his underwear, and hissed.
The sudden chill made him suck in a sharp breath as the exhaustion finally hit him.
He tried to lift his foot again, but as soon as he stood up, his entire leg began to spasm uncontrollably.
Kai slammed his palm against his thigh in frustration.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
At that moment, the team doctor, Gary, crouched down in front of him, resting Kai’s leg on his knee before beginning to massage the cramped muscles.
Levin frowned as he worked. “You’re not going to finish the match like this,” he warned.
Kai leaned back, eyes closed, head resting against the locker. “Don’t care. I’ll play however I can.”
Gary didn’t reply—he knew full well Arsenal owed much of their stability to Kai’s relentless work in midfield.
Walcott came over, glancing down at Kai with concern. “How bad is it? Can you keep going?”
Kai looked him in the eyes and said. “You need to rest. I’ll manage.”
Walcott nodded and walked away quietly.
Across the room, Wenger and Pat were watching closely.
“He won’t last the full ninety,” Pat said gravely.
“He burned too much energy in the first half,” Pat added. “He must’ve run twice as much as anyone else out there.”
Wenger’s expression darkened. “We need to settle this early. Win it inside seventy minutes.”
Pat asked, “Any bright ideas?”
“Go right at them,” Wenger said calmly.
Pat ran a hand over his head. “That’s your plan?!”
Wenger shot him a look. “Have a better one? This is Manchester United, Pat. Ferguson’s United. If we’re timid, we’ll get crushed. They want to attack? Then we’ll meet them head-on. Our attack has looked sharp—seventy minutes is enough.”
...
In the United dressing room, Ferguson’s fury echoed off the walls.
His players sat silent, grim-faced as he was about to tear into them, especially the two defenders who’d been at fault for Arsenal’s goals.
At last, he barked, “Keep playing like the first half! Don’t underestimate them—they’re not the same Gunners anymore!”
Rooney spoke up: “What about their holding midfielder? The lad’s been a nightmare for us.”
“Forget him,” Ferguson snapped. “He won’t last much longer. Take your chances, keep running, no passengers out there! You hear me?”
He narrowed his eyes and added icily, “And don’t think I won’t deal with you lot after I retire.”
The players straightened at that.
In the corner, Van Persie sat quietly, lost in thought, his eyes distant.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of regret gnawing at him. Had he left Arsenal too soon? Had he misjudged their potential? Watching the way they’d fought back tonight, he couldn’t help but wonder—what if he’d stayed just one more year? With this squad, he wouldn’t have to battle so hard for every scrap…
But regrets don’t change the past.
“Hey, Robin,” Rooney called suddenly, breaking his thoughts. “You look like you’re having second thoughts.”
Van Persie waved him off. “No. I’m fine.”
Rooney pressed. “No regrets, eh?”
A few of the others turned to watch, reading between the lines.
Van Persie forced a faint smile. “No,” he repeated.
The others didn’t look convinced, but they said nothing.
As halftime drew to a close, the Sky Sports commentary team of Martin Taylor and Alan Smith weighed in.
“What a first half, Martin—two apiece and neither side backing down. The Gunners showed real steel here, even taking the lead at one stage.”
“That’s right, Alan. The tempo’s been relentless, the kind of match that tests both the tactics and the players’ grit. It’s hard to see this staying at 2–2 for long.”
“Spot on,” Alan agreed. “At this point, sheer determination might matter more than any manager’s game plan.”
As they spoke, the players emerged from the tunnel to resume the match.
The cameras zoomed in on Kai immediately, catching his solemn expression.
He bore the scars of battle—quite literally, with a fresh mark on his forehead courtesy of Rooney from their last meeting.
Tonight, his work rate and influence had been undeniable, even if the stat sheet didn’t show it. His tireless running had patched Arsenal’s defensive gaps time and again.
And now, with at least forty-five minutes still ahead, everyone knew he’d have to dig even deeper.
Kai had already changed into a fresh away kit—purple socks, black shorts, and the deep purple away shirt. Classic Arsenal.
Seeing him return to the pitch, Martin Taylor couldn’t help but remark with admiration:
“This young man’s been one of the stories of the season. The energy he’s shown here, especially on such a big stage, has been remarkable.”
Alan Smith nodded in agreement.
“You’re right, Martin. With Vermaelen out, Kai’s stepped up and become the key man at the back for Arsenal. But it’s not just his tackles and interceptions—it’s what he brings to the team’s morale. You watch when he’s running, and the whole side seems to pick up. That sort of spirit is hard to teach.”
By now, the players had taken their places on the pitch, each side lined up in their respective halves.
2012/2013 Premier League, Round 35. Manchester United vs. Arsenal. The second half was about to begin.
Kai stood near the center circle, taking deep, steady breaths, trying to bring himself back under control. He knew he might not last the full ninety—but what mattered now was making his minutes count.
Wenger’s instructions were clear: keep attacking, keep taking the game to United.
And Kai agreed. Against Ferguson’s Manchester United, there was no hiding. You had to fight.
The whistle blew and Arsenal kicked off. Suarez tapped the ball forward, then rolled it back toward Kai.
Kai immediately sent it back to Koscielny before darting toward the touchline to create more space.
Koscielny, seeing Rooney lurking behind Kai, opted to play it safer, passing to Arteta instead.
Kai edged forward, scanning the pitch, his head constantly turning as he took in the movement around him. Wenger’s orders were clear—if there was a chance to push the ball forward, Kai had the green light, even ahead of Arteta in the pecking order.
The weight of that trust wasn’t lost on him.
Arteta dribbled forward under pressure, with Van Persie closing in fast. At the last moment, he switched the play to Kai, who took it in stride and immediately touched it onto Cazorla.
But Cazorla, crowded out, sent it back.
This time, Kai angled the ball wide to Sagna at full-back.
The commentary picked up on the shift straight away.
“That’s interesting,” said Martin Taylor. “The tempo’s slowed noticeably here.”
Alan chimed in:
“First half was almost frantic—everything forward, full throttle. But now it looks like Arsenal are putting more emphasis on keeping the ball, calming things down.”
On the touchline, Ferguson raised an eyebrow, glancing across at Wenger. The Frenchman stood motionless at the edge of his technical area, calm and unreadable as ever.
Ferguson couldn’t quite work out what he was up to.
Out on the pitch, Kai kept moving, adjusting his position, eyes darting, mind whirring as he analyzed the flow of the game. Every run, every pass, every duel had to be calculated now. His instincts and his vision helped him stay one step ahead—but it was draining.
He could feel himself fading. He couldn’t keep running like he had in the first half; that much was obvious.
Just as he tried to push up again, his calf began to spasm violently.
Tsk.
Kai winced, stamping his foot a few times in a vain attempt to shake it off. The cramp didn’t let up.
Time was running out for him.
He knew what he had to do now: help the team create something, force the advantage while he still could.
Preferably a goal, because they might not get many more chances.
