"Oi! Co on, cheer up a bit, will you? Make so noise! It's far too quiet in here!"
Billy shouted at the surrounding fans, trying to stir the atmosphere and pull everyone along with him.
But the response was flat.
The people around him barely reacted. Even adows, normally the loudest voice in the stand, sat slumped in his seat, his expression unusually heavy.
Everyone had clearly been dragged down by the £100 million buyout clause incident.
As long as it remained unresolved, it felt like a thorn stuck in their throats—impossible to ignore, impossible to relax around. Cheering, laughing, enjoying the match? No one was in the mood.
The thought that their captain might be pulling on another club's shirt in a matter of days—or weeks—was enough to fill them with anger and unease.
"Billy, give it a rest."
"We didn't co here to shout. We ca for answers."
"Sorry, mate. I've got absolutely no desire to cheer right now."
One voice after another pushed back, leaving Billy both frustrated and powerless.
He'd said it again and again—Kai wasn't leaving. He'd even claid to have heard it directly.
But no one believed him.
Only one thing would settle it.
Kai himself.
With a sharp exhale, Billy dropped back into his seat and muttered under his breath, "Just wait. Kai will give you your answer."
The others nodded absent-mindedly, their eyes drifting back toward the pitch, fixed on the figure in red moving across the grass.
. . .
Kai felt it.
The weight of thousands of stares followed him as he ran. It was heavy. Pressing.
Still, he knew this misunderstanding wouldn't last.
There was only one condition.
He had to score.
Otherwise, as his teammates joked, he might as well take the shirt off himself after the final whistle.
With that in mind, Kai was far more aggressive than usual in the opening exchanges. His positioning was noticeably advanced, almost hugging the edge of the opposition's defensive line.
It was rare. Very rare.
"Kai's starting position is much higher than we're used to seeing," Rob Hawthorne observed from the Sky Sports booth. "Compared to previous matches, he's spending far more ti in the attacking third."
Alan Parry nodded. "That's no accident. A lot of it cos down to N'Golo Kanté. We've seen it over the last couple of gas—when Kanté plays, Kai is freed up to push forward. Kanté does the dirty work. He tackles, he runs, he covers."
. .
As Kai stepped higher, Arsenal's tempo imdiately lifted.
The attack beca sharper, quicker, more decisive.
In the final third, he was pointing, gesturing, adjusting the rhythm with subtle movents.
He knew these players inside out.
That familiarity allowed him to choose the right pass, at the right mont, into the right space—putting teammates in positions where they could do the most damage.
Everyone received the ball exactly where they wanted it.
Foresight at its peak.
Even Ángel Di María looked at ease.
Di María had never been a player who needed constant combinations; he could tear down the flank on his own. But whenever he ran into trouble, Kai always seed to appear in the perfect pocket of space—offering a simple outlet or a clever switch.
It almost felt like they'd been playing together for years.
That kind of understanding usually took ti.
But sohow, it was already there.
Or maybe that was the point.
Kai didn't just click with Di María.
He clicked with everyone.
Swish.
Kai collected a quick return pass from Sánchez just outside the box as Mahrez stepped in to close him down.
With a smooth half-turn, Kai shifted the ball back, opening space without wasting energy on a needless physical duel.
Mahrez hesitated—and that was enough.
Kai lifted his head and scanned the area.
Cazorla was hovering near the edge of the box, eager to receive the ball and drive inside, but his movent was beginning to crowd Suárez's space.
Kai paused for a fraction of a second, then drifted left, pointing sharply to the right.
Cazorla understood imdiately.
Arsenal's shape opened up.
Leicester City were forced to stretch.
"Look at the width now," Rob said. "Both flanks are fully opened, Suárez has dropped out of the box, and Leicester's defensive line is being dragged wider and wider."
Alan Parry followed up. "That one small adjustnt forces the entire defence to shift. The gaps get bigger—and that's dangerous. Cazorla's already on his toes. One well-weighted pass and he's straight through."
On the pitch, Kai kept pulling Leicester apart—one pass, one movent, one adjustnt at a ti.
Pat Rice once said that a true organizer didn't just pass the ball; he created space.
Since the World Cup, sothing had clicked.
If the opposition sat deep, he dropped off and lured them out, then used the width to stretch them.
If their midfield pushed up, he drew support from behind and pressed forward again.
It was all about numbers.
Balance. Control.
And now, Kai was doing it instinctively.
Smoothly.
Confidently.
Like a midfielder who finally understood exactly who he was ant to be.
Under the constant pulling and movent of the Arsenal midfield, Leicester City's defensive line began to lose its shape.
Their retreat after pressing was no longer as sharp. The delay was small—but noticeable.
Kai picked up on it imdiately.
Now, all that was missing was the decisive pass.
In the 18th minute, after sliding the ball out wide to Di María, Kai continued his run. This ti, he didn't hesitate—driving straight toward the edge of the penalty area, moving almost parallel with Di María.
Di María read it instantly. He abandoned the idea of taking on his man and instead played a firm, horizontal pass into Kai's path.
As he moved to receive the ball, Kai glanced over his shoulder.
Just one look.
That was enough.
Sánchez was already leaning forward, body tense, ready to explode into space.
Kai took two quick steps, then suddenly opened his body and whipped his left foot across the ball.
Clean and precise.
The ball spun sharply, lifting into a short arc that cleared both centre-backs and dropped toward the far post.
"De Laet!" Morgan shouted, twisting his head to track the run.
But when he looked, it wasn't his full-back he saw.
It was Sánchez.
Full sprint.
"Ah—no, no!" Alan Parry reacted instantly from the Sky Sports booth. "That's danger written all over it."
Morgan swore under his breath and turned to chase, but it was already too late.
Sánchez reached the dropping ball first. He leaned back slightly and cushioned it with his chest, popping it upward just enough to settle it.
In one fluid motion, he adjusted his body, opened his hips, and struck the ball on the half-volley with his right foot.
The shot skidded off the turf, bouncing viciously as it rose.
Kasper Schichel stretched, craned his neck, and flung himself backward—but the ball sailed just over his fingertips and into the net.
"In the 19th minute—Arsenal take the lead!" Rob Hawthorne called out. "A beautifully tid run, a sensational pass, and a ruthless finish."
Alan Smith nodded. "That's top-class football. The movent, the awareness—Kai sees the gap early, and Sánchez does the rest. Leicester were half a second slow, and at this level, that's fatal."
1–0.
Sánchez wheeled away in celebration, sprinting across the pitch, arms pumping, shouting at the crowd.
For a mont, the Emirates erupted.
The earlier anxiety vanished, replaced by pure release—fans on their feet, scarves waving, noise flooding the stadium.
But it didn't last.
As the celebrations faded and play restarted, the volu dipped again. The chants softened. The tension crept back in.
Kai glanced toward the stands, irritation flickering across his face.
Is it really that bad?
If he ever did leave one day, would they tear him apart?
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head, then tugged lightly at the undershirt clinging to his back.
Hot.
Uncomfortable.
He glanced toward his teammates with a wry look.
This thing's roasting alive.
Nearby, Kanté jogged past him, clapping his hands and muttering with a grin, "Good assist, good assist. Very nice pass. Next is goal for you?"
Kai laughed under his breath.
Maybe—just maybe—that was the answer everyone was waiting for.
. . .
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