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Chapter 213: Champions League Semifinals, First Leg 3
🕑 Added 2025-10-26 13:04:50 +0000 UTC“Kai!!! What a brilliant sliding tackle! Perfectly timed and completely clean!”
Martin Taylor’s voice rang out through the commentary box, excitement cutting through the roar of the crowd.
The Arsenal supporters inside the stadium erupted, their cheers and applause cascading like thunder.
“Outstanding!”
“This takes me back to last season, that match against United!”
“Kai’s slide tackles are always a thing of beauty—his timing is impeccable!”
“Ronaldo didn’t even have time to fall! Hahaha!”
“Well done, Kai!!”
The Arsenal fans kept clapping and chanting his name.
Kai rose to his feet amid the noise, dusting himself off. He ignored Cristiano Ronaldo’s look of disbelief and turned toward the goal instead.
Szczęsny looked uneasy. He knew he’d just made a mistake—one that nearly led to disaster. And when he saw Kai striding toward him, his nerves only grew worse.
“Kai! Listen, I—”
Kai raised his hand high.
Szczęsny froze.
Slap!
Kai’s hand came down gently on his shoulder.
“Forget it. Keep your head up!”
Szczęsny blinked. “You’re… not going to hit me?”
Kai looked at him as if he were crazy. “Why would I hit you, a grown man? You want me to get a red card here?”
“No, no! Of course not, it’s just—”
“Then don’t overthink it. Focus and keep an eye on that Frenchman!”
“Got it! Okay!” Szczęsny nodded quickly.
Kai turned away, muttering under his breath. It was going to be a long night.
.
The match was barely ten minutes old, yet both teams had already traded thrilling attacks.
At the heart of it all were the two conductors—Kai and Modrić—both dictating play and setting the rhythm.
Modrić studied Kai curiously.
Though they’d both played in the Premier League, their paths had never crossed. Modrić had left Tottenham for Madrid in 2012, just before Kai broke into Arsenal’s first team.
He’d only heard bits about the young midfielder from Gareth Bale.
Bale and Kai shared the same agency, but they had never been close. In fact, Bale had little fondness for him—Kai’s relentless marking last season had been a nightmare to deal with.
And now, Bale was here, looking for redemption.
“Hey! Not going to take me on?” Kai called out, smirking as he shadowed him.
Bale rolled his eyes and ignored him.
Kai persisted, “Come on, don’t you want to prove yourself? You’re in Madrid now—show me what’s changed! Dribble past me! Let’s see what you’ve got!”
Bale’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond, just walked off.
Kai exhaled quietly.
He’s learned to keep his cool. No more easy provocation.
Wenger was right—cheap tricks don’t work on a Champions League final stage.
Beep!
The sharp whistle sliced through the air. Kai turned toward the commotion in Madrid’s box.
Suárez was down, clutching his leg. Pepe stood nearby, gesturing angrily.
As the referee arrived, Pepe suddenly shouted, “He bit me!”
The referee hesitated. He hadn’t seen it clearly—but since the player in question was Suárez, he couldn’t just ignore it.
With no VAR to rely on yet, he consulted the linesman. After a brief discussion, the decision was made.
The referee turned to Pepe, raised the yellow card… and then pointed to the spot!
Penalty to Arsenal!
The crowd exploded.
A penalty—in the 13th minute!
If they converted this, it would be the perfect start.
“Penalty for Arsenal!” Martin Taylor announced, his tone half-amused, half-incredulous. “And would you believe it—Pepe’s done it again!”
Alan Smith chuckled beside him. “It’s almost tradition at this point, isn’t it?”
On screen, Pepe was still protesting furiously, waving his arms. But the referee was unmoved.
When it became clear nothing would change, Pepe spun around, ready to go after Suárez again—but Kai was already there, stepping in between them.
Pepe didn’t care who Kai was—when his temper flared, he’d even try to kick Drogba into the stands if he had to.
Fortunately, Casillas sprinted over and grabbed him before things escalated.
As Pepe was dragged away, Kai exhaled deeply.
That guy was pure chaos when he lost his temper. A walking red card.
Kai turned and helped Suarez to his feet. The Uruguayan didn’t look seriously hurt—it was obvious he’d gone down trying to draw a foul.
“Did you really bite him?” Kai asked, half suspicious, half amused.
Suarez looked wounded by the accusation. “No! He swung his arm at me and hit my teeth. What was I supposed to do?”
Kai blinked. “…”
Right. So both of them felt like victims.
Still, the result was all that mattered—Arsenal had a penalty.
Cazorla, Suarez, and Kai gathered to discuss who would take it. They were Arsenal’s top three penalty takers, and after a short exchange, they agreed Suarez should have it—he’d earned it, after all.
Suarez grinned, clearly satisfied. His Champions League goal tally wasn’t nearly as high as in the Premier League, and this was a golden chance to boost it.
He placed the ball carefully on the spot.
Kai and the others stepped back to the edge of the box, ready to follow up if needed.
The Emirates fell silent. The earlier roar of excitement had faded into tense anticipation.
Suarez took a deep breath, jogged up, and struck the ball hard.
It flew low and fast toward the left post.
Casillas guessed right—but he was just an inch short. The ball skimmed past his fingertips, brushed the inside of the post, and hit the net.
1–0 Arsenal.
“Gooooooooooooooaaaal!”
“¡Luis Suarez!!!”
“Arsenal take the lead in just the 13th minute—what a start!”
The Emirates exploded into a wall of noise.
Red and white scarves waved wildly as fans jumped from their seats, shouting and hugging each other.
Suarez sprinted toward the corner flag, shouting in triumph. Kai and the others followed, tackling him to the ground in celebration.
“We’re ahead!”
“We’re actually leading!”
“Hahaha! Real Madrid aren’t that terrifying after all!”
“Victory! Victory! Victory!”
“Well played, Luis!”
They piled on top of each other, laughing, shouting—soaking in the moment.
In the commentary box, Martin Taylor could hardly contain himself.
“Suarez scores! And that came out of nowhere! No one expected the first goal of this final to arrive like this!”
Alan Smith chuckled. “And it’s Pepe again causing chaos—Real Madrid are in trouble now. With a yellow card hanging over him, he’s a walking time bomb!”
The cameras panned to the Madrid bench. Carlo Ancelotti’s expression was tight, his jaw set.
He’d warned his players before kickoff—but Pepe had done it again. And now, Madrid was paying for it.
Meanwhile, the Arsenal dugout was a different world entirely.
“This is it! This is how you do it!” Pat Rice yelled, grabbing Wenger in a jubilant hug. “Look at them—they’re going toe-to-toe with Madrid!”
Wenger’s face broke into a rare, wide smile. He’d come into this match prepared for a tough night. Even he hadn’t expected his side to look this sharp, this fearless.
Sure, the goal had a bit of luck about it, but their buildup had been confident, their rhythm controlled.
They were playing their football—and playing it well.
Fundamentals first.
That’s the secret to greatness. To become Champions League contenders—or even world-beaters—you have to master the basics to perfection.
Arsenal weren’t there yet. But they’d found their direction.
They were on the right path.
