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Chapter 5: The Returning Squad
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 15:18:03 +0000 UTCTwo weeks passed in quiet, steady rhythm.
Then came the familiar sounds of exertion and an old man’s barking in the Arsenal gym.
Sweat poured down Kai’s face as he gritted his teeth. His legs were bent at a perfect ninety degrees, back supported by a round yoga ball, arms extended above his head with dumbbells in each hand. The unstable surface forced his entire body to stay tense, constantly adjusting to maintain balance.
It was grueling. Every muscle had to engage.
Compared to two weeks ago, Kai’s physique had changed drastically. His shoulders, core, and legs were visibly more muscular—but not bulky. He was lean, defined, and balanced.
Still holding the position, he clenched his jaw and fought through the burning in his core. Two minutes in—and only halfway through the four-minute hold that Pat Rice had demanded.
His breathing was deep but strained, each inhale tugging at his tightening abs.
Pat Rice pulled up a chair and sat down in front of him, arms crossed. “Remember,” he said sternly, “one of the keys to success in football is exceptional body control.”
“You’ve got to command your muscles. All of them. Controlled strength is better than show muscles.”
Kai kept his position, face tight with pain, but managed to shoot back, “You sure about that, coach? Drogba seemed to do just fine.”
Pat Rice raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed that the kid had energy left to talk back.
Without a word, he nudged Kai’s abdomen with his foot.
“Don’t test me,” he said, smirking.
Kai’s face flushed red, and his entire frame shook. He was on the verge of collapse.
Pat Rice watched him with a glimmer of approval, but masked it with a cheeky smile. “Still got time to talk? One more minute.”
Kai didn’t respond, just gritted his teeth and endured.
Pat Rice couldn’t help but respect that.
He’d trained many players before, often starting them with deliberately overwhelming routines to break their confidence and gauge their limits. Most faltered. He would then scale back the training to a more realistic progression.
But Kai had finished the full training load on his first day and still recovered well afterward.
Day two, Pat Rice doubled the intensity.
Still, the kid endured.
It wasn’t long before Pat Rice realized this boy was cut from a different cloth.
After three days, worried the intensity might do real harm, Pat Rice adjusted the regimen slightly. Even so, in just two weeks, Kai had transformed physically and mentally.
Of course, that came at a price.
For those two weeks, he hadn’t touched a ball once.
“All right, stop!”
At Pat Rice’s signal, Kai let himself fall backward onto the floor, chest heaving, arms limp at his sides.
“Get up. Stretch.”
Pat Rice nudged him again with his foot.
Groaning, Kai dragged himself into a stretch, propping himself on his elbows while keeping his lower body flat. He winced as his abs pulled tight.
“When can I start ball training again?” he asked, exhaling.
“Not yet,” Pat Rice said firmly.
“Coach, come on,” Kai grinned, “I thought ball training was essential for every pro. You can’t just do physical training forever.”
That made Pat Rice laugh.
“Essential? You think I’ve got the luxury of time? The higher-ups want you transformed into a proper midfielder this season. You think I can take it slow?”
“A whole season?” Kai blinked. “So… I’m not playing this year?”
Pat Rice raised a brow. “What do you think?”
“What if I finish the training program ahead of schedule?”
“That’s not the issue.” Pat Rice shook his head. “You still don’t have your work permit. The club is applying under the ‘Special Talent’ clause. If everything goes smoothly, there’ll be a hearing early next year. Maybe then you’ll get to play. But that’s a big if.”
He gave Kai a look. “I just hope you don’t turn into another Song.”
Kai winced. “...Harsh.”
...
Mid-July arrived without fuss.
Clubs across Europe began summoning players back for pre-season.
At Arsenal, only Van Persie remained as a pillar following the departure of several key players. On July 16th, the club officially named him captain, entrusting him with the responsibility of leading the team through uncertain times.
As pre-season kicked off, the mood at the training ground was tense. The losses of Fabregas and Nasri still lingered like a storm cloud. Players returned looking somber, their minds elsewhere—something that didn’t escape Arsène Wenger’s concern.
Standard procedure called for full medical evaluations on day one. Every player, starters and substitutes alike, lined up for the checkups.
And on that day, Kai met someone new.
A young Englishman with a buzzcut—Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.
Fresh from Southampton, Chamberlain looked nervous and unsure. He was still green, just a wide-eyed winger at this stage, far from the confident midfielder he would later become.
But this was where it all began.
“Wait... transformation?” Kai blinked at Pat Rice. “Into a midfielder?”
Wenger had plans to shift Chamberlain into the middle.
“What?” Pat Rice replied. “Defenders can become midfielders, but wingers can’t?”
Kai turned to look at Chamberlain, puzzled.
The younger player looked uncomfortable under the stare. This was Arsenal, after all—his dream club. And this guy was sizing him up like he’d just announced he was moving to Mars.
Before the silence dragged on, Pat Rice cut in.
“I need to speak with Wenger. You two—go get your medicals done. Kai, once you’re finished, take Oxlade through today’s training.”
Kai’s face lit up.
The weeks of solo drills had been mind-numbing. A training partner? That was exactly what he needed.
“Hello,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Kai.”
“Chamberlain,” the other boy replied with a sheepish grin.
“Know where the med check is?” Chamberlain asked, scratching his head.
“I got you. Follow me,” Kai said, motioning ahead.
As they walked through the training base, they chatted. Well, Kai did most of the talking. Chamberlain responded with nods and the occasional hum.
They arrived at the medical station. Two lines had formed—one for starters, the other for subs.
As they waited, Kai recognized a few key figures in the main queue—Van Persie, Walcott, Rosický. But something was off. Their expressions were closed, cold.
Fabregas’s departure had left wounds.
Kai stopped staring. But Chamberlain kept glancing their way, wide-eyed.
Kai nudged him with an elbow. “Don’t stare.”
“Why not?” Chamberlain asked, genuinely confused.
“You don’t know what Arsenal’s been through recently?”
“Fabregas?”
“Shh!” Kai hissed, quickly pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t say that name. It’s like a curse around here.”
He leaned closer and draped an arm around Chamberlain’s neck. “The way he left? Left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Especially with the first-team guys.”
“Sorry,” Chamberlain said quickly. “I was just curious.”
“Can’t blame you,” Kai smiled. “They’re stars, after all. But trust me—don’t gawk.”
