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Chapter 35: The Fire Beneath
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 16:00:46 +0000 UTCFebruary 26, 2012
The Oak Bar, Woolwich, London
Arsenal vs Tottenham Hotspur- Matchday 26.
"That's right! Just smash them!"
"Don’t let those Spurs lot get too cocky!"
"Push forward!"
"Beautiful from Arteta!"
"Song—steal it! Ah, damn it!"
The bar was in chaos. Arsenal fans were on their feet, drinks in hand, shouting, swearing, and cheering like mad. The atmosphere was electric.
Billy was in the thick of it, more worked up than usual.
Meanwhile, Kai sat quietly at the bar, sipping his juice and chatting with Kelvin Meadows.
“We’ve got this in the bag,” Kai said after taking a sip. “Played a solid game.”
Meadows nodded, frowning slightly. “We’re closing the gap, but bloody hell—Spurs are ten points ahead.”
Kai didn’t say anything.
Arsenal had taken a hit in recent weeks. But they were able to bounce back with some wins to place themselves in fourth place. After 25 rounds, the Spurs sat third with 53 points.
Arsenal?
43, but they were not out of the woods yet. Chelsea was with 43 but sat in fifth due the head to the head-to-head stat since both teams had the same goal difference.
This match was crucial. A loss would mean falling even further behind, and no Gooner could accept that.
Kai thought about it and fell silent again.
Arsenal fans had a certain resilience. They didn’t cling to setbacks. They moved on. One week later, it was like nothing had happened.
Kai couldn’t quite decide how he felt about that.
“Wenger hasn’t given you another chance yet?” Meadows asked, resting his chin on his hand.
Kai shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like the boss is in any rush to bring me back in.”
Meadows chuckled. “He’s focused on Champions League qualification. Not the time to experiment with new personnel. Once things settle, your chance will come.”
Kai raised an eyebrow. “You sound pretty sure of that.”
Meadows smirked. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Kai shrugged. “Do I?”
“You were excellent on your debut,” Meadows said. “Really solid. If Henry hadn’t stolen the spotlight, you’d have been man of the match. Hell of a way to start—if that doesn’t earn you minutes, then Arsenal might as well change their name.”
Kai didn’t reply.
The truth was, he didn’t feel much about that game.
As Meadows had said, it was a debut destined to be forgotten. The headlines the next day all screamed Henry’s Return. His performance was barely a footnote.
No media coverage. No fan buzz the next day.
He hadn’t expected heaps of praise, but a little recognition wouldn’t have hurt.
Wenger had his eyes on Europe. This wasn’t the time to nurture young players, even if Kai had made a promising start.
Wenger needed stability. Points.
And Kai, a kid with just one appearance, wasn’t part of that core plan. Not yet.
Sighing, Kai turned to Meadows. “How was I, really?”
“As I said before, you were great,” Meadows said without hesitation.
Kai leaned in. “You coming to watch my next match?”
Meadows blinked, then grinned. “Not yet. If you have to ask, you haven’t done enough.”
Kai rolled his eyes. “So what is enough?”
Meadows shot back, “Why do you want me there so badly?”
Kai paused. “I guess… It’s just good to know someone’s watching. Someone I know and care about.”
Meadows gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. “When I think you’ve earned it, I’ll be there.”
Kai groaned. “What, you want me to score a hat-trick? I’m a midfielder!”
Meadows laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve got my standards, lad.”
Kai let it go. This guy wasn’t going to give him a straight answer. Probably didn’t want to admit Wenger might’ve been right.
The game ended.
In the 2011/12 season, Arsenal beat Spurs 5–2. North London bragging rights secured, although Arsenal lost away at White Hart Lane 2-1.
It felt like payback for the first half of the season.
The fans were buzzing.
Billy was humming tunes on the walk home, practically skipping.
Kai was at a loss for words.
They’d lost out on the title, been knocked out of the Champions League—and yet one derby win brought all the joy back.
Maybe that’s just how Arsenal fans were.
After so many years without silverware, they’d learned to find happiness wherever they could.
And now, with the derby behind them, the team turned its focus to chasing a Champions League spot.
...
The core players played every match. No rotation.
No minutes for the bench.
Kai included.
Chamberlain had it even worse—he was desperate. Training like a man possessed.
Wenger noticed. He was pleased with the fire.
“Chamberlain’s been excellent lately,” Pat Rice commented, glancing sideways at Van Persie.
Wenger gave him a sharp look. “Don’t go there.”
Pat pursed his lips. He didn’t look convinced.
Rumors had been swirling. Van Persie’s contract had a year left. The club tried to extend, but he kept dodging.
After a few failed attempts, the writing was on the wall.
After Fabregas, the club had grown wary.
Now the media was speculating—was Van Persie’s agent shopping him around?
Pat hoped it was all nonsense. Just media noise.
But the signs weren’t good.
For now, it was calm on the surface. Everyone was still pushing for Europe.
But beneath that, things were uncertain.
Pat Rice headed out to the pitch and called to Kai, “Let’s go—medical check.”
Kai left the training game, grabbed his towel, and followed Pat silently.
Neither said a word on the way to the infirmary.
This was Arsenal now—outwardly solid, inwardly unsettled.
In the infirmary, the team doctor, Levin, motioned for Kai to sit.
Kai stripped off his shirt. Gary pinched the skin under his shoulder blades with calipers and repeated the test three times.
“You’re putting on weight again,” he muttered.
Kai now weighed 83 kilos—a 6-kilo jump from the start of the season. The added fat was starting to show.
Pat gave a nod and waved Kai off. Then he turned to Gary for the full report.
Cardiovascular assessment, musculoskeletal assessment, and body composition—all documented.
After checking the data, Pat nodded. “Looks good.”
Gary chuckled. “Trying to turn him into a tank?”
Pat shook his head. “He can’t be a tank.”
Gary O'Driscoll raised a brow. “You’ve got high hopes for him, huh?”
Pat looked up. “What makes you say that?”
“You weren’t this invested in Cesc. You think Kai’s more talented?”
The mention of Fabregas darkened Pat’s face. “Don’t bring up that name.”
He still felt betrayed by the star he’d helped shape.
Gary raised his hands. “Alright, alright. No need to revisit old wounds.”
He paused. “So? You didn’t answer.”
Rice was quiet for a moment. “Yeah… I do have high hopes for him.”
Gary smiled. “You want him to be the next Fabregas?”
Pat scoffed. “No. He’ll be the next Vieira.”
Gary fell silent.
Then, carefully, he asked, “Are you sure that’s the right path?”
Pat’s voice was steady. “Whether it is or not, you know as well as I do—my vision’s always been different from Arsène’s.”
“He believes in the system. In structure. Tactics above all.”
“But we know there’s more to football than that.”
Pat clenched his fist.
“Spirit. Confidence. Will to win. Trust in your teammates. These things—they decide games. Players aren’t robots. They’ve got fire. Emotion. And when that fire catches, it changes everything.”
“We’ve ignored that for too long.”
“It’s time we changed direction.”
