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Chapter 33: Captain's Treat
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 15:58:23 +0000 UTC[Training Ground, Arsenal Training Centre]
That evening, the Arsenal squad returned to the training ground.
Van Persie had already been waiting for them on the pitch.
"Hey, I caught the match—fantastic job out there!" he greeted them with a grin, pulling a few teammates into a warm hug.
At this point, Van Persie still had the desire and hope for winning trophies with the club.
After the initial greetings, he clapped his hands together. "Right, dinner at my place tonight. The professor's already given it the green light."
The announcement sparked a wave of excitement.
Recent victories and the FA Cup win had done wonders for team morale. Wenger didn’t hold them back and dismissed the players early. However, he did ask Song to stop by his office—a sign that the manager was less than impressed with his performance today.
After changing, Kai and Chamberlain left the locker room together. Most of the team had already headed off toward the car park.
The two looked at each other, realizing the same issue.
"How are we getting there?" Kai asked.
He didn’t own a car yet and had no clue where Van Persie lived. Chamberlain was in the same boat.
Just as things were getting awkward, Arteta walked over.
"Come with me," he said simply.
Both Kai and Chamberlain nodded without hesitation.
This was Van Persie’s first team party—unless you had a death wish for your Arsenal career, you showed up.
Arteta’s car cruised through the city. Kai sat in the passenger seat while Chamberlain was already dozing off in the back.
Arteta glanced over. "Great debut today."
Kai nodded. "Yeah, I think so too."
Arteta chuckled. "Don’t get your hopes up for tomorrow’s headlines, though."
Kai laughed. "As long as we win, I don’t need the spotlight."
Arteta smiled. "If Henry hadn’t played, you’d be called a genius by now. Fans would be obsessed."
Kai shook his head. "No thanks. Wearing the number 4 shirt is pressure enough. If I get labeled a genius, then one off-day and they’ll be tearing me apart."
Arteta turned to him, intrigued. "You don’t act like a typical young player, you know?"
"Why not?" Kai asked, curious.
"You are mature for your age... maybe except for that incident with Park."
Kai replied. "That was different."
"Alright," Arteta continued, "as I was saying, take your style of play. After every interception, your first instinct is to cover space, not push forward. You only attack when there’s a real chance—you’re never reckless."
"Is that a bad thing?" Kai asked.
Arteta paused. "Not at all. It’s just... unusual for someone your age."
"I’m a defensive midfielder," Kai replied, stretching. "My job is to defend first. If I can’t secure the back, what’s the point in going forward?"
"I just want to win games."
...
Van Persie’s home was in Fulham—ironically near Chelsea's ground. The area was popular with players thanks to its location and privacy.
He owned a spacious villa with its yard and pool.
Players arrived one after another, welcomed with cheerful greetings.
When Kai stepped in, Van Persie patted his shoulder with a wide smile. "Fantastic debut again, keep it up."
Kai returned the gesture with a brief grin before heading inside.
The courtyard was buzzing. A long table was loaded with Italian cuisine. Nothing fatty, just good food and cozy atmosphere.
Since they were still mid-season, alcohol was off-limits. Most sipped water, with a few opting for juice.
The mood was vibrant. The recent winning streak had everyone in high spirits.
Suddenly, someone shouted, "Hey Andre! Isn’t it time you danced?"
The crowd quickly joined in.
"Andrey’s gotta dance!"
"No backing out now!"
Arshavin scowled. "I didn’t lose! I’m not dancing!"
Walcott grinned. "Alright, how about this: lowest average running distance per game dances?"
Arshavin, confident, nodded. "Deal."
He had played the full 90 minutes—surely he outran the rookie.
Walcott whipped out his phone and scrolled through the stats.
But soon his face twisted into surprise. His eyes flicked toward Kai, seated at the far end of the table.
Everyone waited.
Walcott turned. "Hey, Kai—you know your rating for this game?"
Kai blinked. "No idea."
Walcott held up his phone. "8.5."
"The best-rated player was Henry with a 9.0. You were just behind him."
Everyone leaned in. Match ratings above 8.0 were rare, typically reserved for goal-scorers.
But Kai hadn’t scored or assisted—yet pulled an 8.5?
Van Persie walked over to check the phone.
When he saw Kai’s stat line, he fell into silence.
[3 successful tackles, 4 interceptions, 2 clearances]
[90% pass accuracy, 1 key pass]
This was elite-level defensive midfield work.
How many chances did Leeds even get if Kai alone disrupted them nine times?
His passing wasn’t flashy—mostly safe, short passes—but that one key long ball had made an impact.
For a debut, these were absurd numbers.
Van Persie raised an eyebrow, then checked the running distance.
10.2 kilometers.
He looked to the sky in disbelief.
Kai had only played a little over 60 minutes, yet he still ran more than 10 kilometers?
Van Persie checked Arshavin’s distance: 10.0 kilometers.
"Andre," he said, smirking, "you lost."
Arshavin clutched his head. "No way!"
Before he could argue, he was dragged off by the others.
That night, a video of Arshavin dancing lit up Arsenal fan pages—and earned him the nickname.
The party hit a new high after that. Laughter, jokes, and cheerful banter filled the villa.
For the first time in weeks, the gloom of pre-season seemed truly behind them.
Van Persie, full of fire, stood up to make a toast.
"We’re beating Barcelona. We’re going all the way to the Champions League final!"
His words were met with roars of agreement.
Kai didn’t comment, but most of the team raised their fists, swept up in the emotion.
The gathering wound down by 8 p.m., and Arteta gave Kai a lift home.
As he sat in the passenger seat, Kai made a silent decision.
It was time to get a driver’s license.
He couldn’t keep hitching rides forever.
And if he saved up a bit from his wages, he could probably afford a decent car soon too.
