The usually buzzing Emirates Stadium had fallen eerily quiet. Arsenal fans were biting their nails, their tension thick in the air.
Two quick goals conceded had completely killed the early optimism. Now, the atmosphere was filled with anxiety.
Everyone in red knew exactly what was at stake — lose this, and their title hopes were as good as gone.
Arsenal had never been famous for resilience — even their own fans admitted that much.
Once they fell behind, they seemed to lose their rhythm, their belief. It was a long-standing flaw, the reason their performances often crumbled when the tide turned.
For Arsenal, it was always one of two extremes: either they launched a furious comeback and tore the opponent apart, or they simply faded away.
Those miracle nights fans loved to talk about? They rarely belonged to Arsenal.
Even though this version of the team had shown flashes of grit recently, the old perceptions were hard to shake off.
"Bloody hell!"
Meadows clenched and unclenched his fists, his jaw tight.
Just when they were so close to a title… they were falling apart, and at home, of all places. He hadn't seen that coming.
Beside him, Billy was gnawing at his fingers — or what was left of them. His nails were shredded down to splinters, but he didn't even notice. That was how much this meant.
The stands stayed silent. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the pitch, searching for someone to believe in.
And then, almost instinctively, the crowd's gaze drifted toward one number.
Number 4.
"Kai will turn this around! Just believe!" someone shouted from the stands — but even that sounded more like hope than conviction.
Yes, Kai had rescued them countless times before. But could he do it again?
Luck didn't always smile twice.
"What I'd give for Suarez right now…"
"Oh, come on, just once — give us this title!"
"This is torture!"
Complaints rippled through the stands. Arsenal fans hated this feeling — being behind, helpless, doubting their own side.
And against Chelsea, of all teams.
Their anxiety deepened.
On the pitch, Arsenal pressed on. After releasing the ball, Kai glanced toward the crowd.
The once-deafening roar had died to a suffocating silence.
He knew this problem well. Ever since joining Arsenal, he had sensed it.
Unlike the other European giants, Arsenal — still without a Champions League trophy — carried the weight of being a pseudo-elite.
Yes, they looked the part, but deep down, there was insecurity.
That's why the fans shouted about being a big club— not from pride, but from the need to believe it.
For Kai, the true hallmark of an elite side wasn't just winning — it was courage. The ability to find hope when there seemed to be none.
And that was what Arsenal lacked.
Could that spirit be built? Kai didn't know. But he believed it could grow — one victory at a time.
He took a deep breath. The atmosphere was stifling; something had to change.
"Forward!"
"Make the run!"
"Too slow — move it!"
"Back! Reset!"
The shouts on the pitch were desperate now. Faces were tight, voices strained.
Anxiety was everywhere.
Chelsea's defense felt like a wall — every move was stopped cold.
Shots came, but they were rushed, forced.
And the players… they were exhausted.
This game felt heavier than any before — the kind of fatigue that seeps into your bones.
It was as if the grind of an entire season had come crashing down at once. Legs felt like lead, runs grew shorter, bodies slower.
Rosický took a pass from Cazorla, turned, and drove forward.
It wasn't the smartest choice, but he had no intention of backing down.
If he could just beat Ivanović, Arsenal might finally crack Chelsea's shape.
He wanted to be the spark.
He'd had enough of empty seasons. Since joining in 2006, he'd watched Arsenal slip year by year. The FA Cup last season had been nice, but it wasn't the league title.
This — right here — was their best shot in years.
He couldn't let it slip.
So he went for it.
Bump!
Just as Rosicky pushed forward, Ivanović came crashing in with a hard slide.
No hesitation, no mercy. He didn't even let Rosicky plant his foot.
Chelsea weren't going to let Arsenal off the hook. Not tonight.
"Damn it!"
Rosicky slammed the turf and roared in frustration.
The anxiety was spreading fast.
Kai tried to rally them, shouting to calm things down, but it was useless.
Everyone wanted to be the hero. Everyone wanted to break through on their own.
Good intentions — but it was tearing the team apart.
Martin Taylor's voice came through the broadcast, sharp with concern.
"The Gunners are losing their heads here. Everyone's trying to do it alone — they can't even see the teammates around them anymore."
Alan Smith nodded beside him.
"Exactly, Martin. This isn't about effort now; it's about composure. Arsenal need someone to take charge — and right now, all eyes are on Kai."
.
Cooperation
Teamwork
That's the foundation of the Gunners' success — and they can't afford to throw it all away now.
Seeing Arsenal's players getting carried away with reckless forward runs, Billy shifted his gaze toward Wenger, as if expecting the Frenchman to intervene.
Wenger, unable to sit still any longer, stepped up to the touchline, shouting out instructions.
He wanted to calm his players down, to rein in this wild, headlong attacking play — but Arsenal were like a runaway car at full throttle, impossible to stop once they'd picked up speed.
Though his posture appeared calm, Wenger's eyes were sharp — constantly analyzing, adjusting.
Kai's gaze drifted toward Azpilicueta.
The Spanish full-back stood at 178 centimeters — solid but hardly dominant in the air.
Kai knew if he timed his leap right, he could win that duel.
But only if someone managed to distract Terry first.
He turned and met Walcott's eyes.
A subtle nod toward the penalty area was all it took.
Walcott hesitated for a heartbeat — uncertain, but trusting — then made his move into the box.
Just as planned, Terry was now caught between Walcott and Podolski.
Kai exhaled slowly, preparing himself.
"Set piece, taken by Cazorla… though without Mertesacker, Arsenal have lost a big aerial presence," said Martin Taylor.
Alan Smith replied with a note of concern, "Yeah, you look at the lineup now — Podolski, Walcott, Rosický — not exactly giants, are they? Especially against Terry and Cahill."
Cazorla glanced at the referee, who was raising the whistle to his lips. He still hadn't seen a clear route — until he noticed a hand quietly lifted at the far post.
Cazorla's eyes lit up. The whistle blew — and he whipped the ball in instantly.
It curled toward the penalty area, fast and low, just skimming above the crowd of players.
Walcott and Podolski's runs drew Terry and Cahill forward.
By the time the two center-backs realized the cross had flown over them, it was too late.
"Back post!" Terry shouted, twisting around.
Azpilicueta followed the flight of the ball — then froze as a figure came charging in.
He tried to jump, but his reaction came a fraction too late, his leap too low.
Kai soared above him — towering, balanced, powerful — his body angling mid-air as he met the ball cleanly with his forehead.
Bang!
The strike thundered like a cannon, rocketing into the back of the net.
Whoosh!
The sound of the ball smashing into the goal was followed by a stunned, collective silence across the Emirates.
For a moment, not even a breath — just the echo of the net rippling and the image of Kai, suspended in the air, arms outstretched in triumph.
...
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