After mid-December, the weather across the UK turned properly miserable again.
The temperature hovered around freezing, and the rain never really stopped. Wind cut through everything. It was the kind of cold that settled into your bones and stayed there.
At Colney, Kai was wrapped up in a thick down jacket, hat pulled low, gloves on, grinding through laps.
A drizzle fell, sharp and cold against any exposed skin. Even a single drop was enough to make him flinch.
"Honestly, this weather…"
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
Four years in England, and it still hadn't grown on him. Not even close.
On a day like this, he should be at home under a duvet, heater running, doing absolutely nothing. Instead, he was out here in the rain.
"One more!"
Bang!
"Again!"
Bang!
"Watch this!"
At the far end, Alexis Sánchez kept firing shots into the net.
No gloves. No hat. Shorts in this cold.
Kai slowed to a stop, shoulders tightening inside his jacket as he made his way toward the dugout for cover.
He glanced over again, baffled while rubbing his gloves
"What's wrong with him? Doesn't he feel cold?"
"You're the one with the problem."
The voice came calmly from behind.
Kai turned to see Arsène Wenger approaching, hands tucked into his coat, expression mildly amused.
"I remember you're from the northeast of China," Wenger continued as he fogged the air with his breath. "It's colder there than in London. So why does this bother you so much?"
Kai opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Cold back home was one thing. You stayed indoors. Heating took care of the rest.
Out here, it was different.
Wenger gave him a brief look, then waved a hand.
"I'll be rotating more over the next few weeks. Use the time properly, recover well."
Kai nodded. "That suits me."
December into January was always decisive. The FA Cup was coming, and the schedule would only tighten. Rotation mattered now.
Once the league hit its stride after the New Year, there would be no breaks.
"And your weight?" Wenger asked.
"Down two kilos."
A small nod of approval.
"Good. Keep it controlled. No rushing. You lose it too quickly, you lose strength with it."
"I'm following Pat's plan," Kai replied.
"Good. Pat knows what he's doing. And you've been assigned a nutritionist. He'll handle your meals for the next six months."
Kai shrugged lightly. "No complaints from me."
Wenger clapped his hands soon after, wrapping up the session. Even he had no interest in staying out longer than necessary in that cold.
Training ended quickly.
. . .
Kai drove out of the training ground, wipers working constantly against the drizzle.
He didn't head home.
Instead, he pulled up outside Mrs. Winter's shop.
It was the same as always. Small, easy to miss if you weren't looking for it.
Inside, the old woman with white hair and thick glasses looked up, her face softening as soon as she saw him.
"A bowl of corn porridge and some hot tea," Kai called from the doorway, rubbing his hands together.
She smiled and got to work.
"Come inside, child. No point freezing out there."
He stepped in immediately.
Warm air hit him at once from a small heater, pushing back the damp cold clinging to his clothes.
He pulled off his hat for a moment, and steam rose faintly from his hair.
Mrs. Winter turned quickly. "No, keep that on. You'll catch a cold."
Kai chuckled, putting it back on without argument, then crouched near the heater, hands stretched out toward the warmth.
It was his first time properly inside.
Small space, but spotless.
On the wall hung a black and white photograph.
He glanced at it.
"I have never spoken about it, huh," Mrs. Winter said gently, not turning around. "My husband, Bruce."
She stirred the pot as she spoke.
"He loved Arsenal. Properly loved them. If he knew I had the captain sitting here eating, he'd be over the moon."
Kai smiled. "So you're both fans?"
"Not really," she replied, shaking her head slightly. "I don't understand football much. But I still watch Arsenal play."
She paused, then added quietly,
"He made sure of that."
This was the first time Mrs. Winter opened up that much. So with rapt attention, Kai listened to her story.
Mrs. Winter set the corn porridge into the cooker, then turned, wiping her hands on her apron. Her gaze drifted to the photograph on the wall, her expression softening.
"Twenty years ago, Bruce took me to Highbury for the first time," she said quietly. "He was so happy that day. Like a child. He kept saying he'd brought another supporter to Arsenal."
Kai let out a low chuckle. He could picture it clearly.
She shook her head, a trace of amusement in her voice. "But before that, he wouldn't stop talking about the club. Every day, the same thing. Arsenal this, Arsenal that. The way he went on, you'd think he was selling something priceless."
She paused, then added with a small smile, "I was almost jealous of Arsenal back then."
Kai laughed, this time more openly.
Mrs. Winter covered her mouth, laughing along with him, though there was something deeper behind it.
"Bruce was like every other Arsenal supporter," she continued. "He loved the club with everything he had. It was part of his life. Even when he was in hospital… he kept asking me to take him to a match."
Her voice slowed.
"I should have taken him."
A brief silence settled between them.
"When he... passed," her voice began to break, "he was still... talking about Arsenal."
Kai lowered his gaze for a moment, then spoke, calm and steady.
"He's still watching from above. I'm sure of it."
"Yes," she said, her smile returning, gentle but certain. "If he loved Arsenal that much, then wherever he is, he's still watching over the club."
She folded her hands together lightly.
"I used to complain. I used to think football took him away from everything else. But… over time, I understood."
A quiet breath.
"Watching the sorrow and heartache fans experienced over the years when they streamed into this shop," she said, almost to herself. "Football to some is more than life."
"So I thought, maybe I should do something for him instead."
She looked at Kai."
Her eyes then flicked toward the photograph again.
"The matches he never saw… I watch them now. I remember them. One day, I'll tell him all about it."
A soft beep broke the moment.
The cooker clicked. The porridge was ready.
Mrs. Winter moved smoothly, packing the corn porridge and pouring a cup of hot tea before handing both to Kai.
He reached for his wallet. "How much?"
She shook her head at once. "No. This one's on me."
Kai hesitated.
She smiled, warm but firm. "I don't know how many more seasons I'll get to watch. So you'd better win that Champions League soon."
There was a hint of mischief in her eyes now.
"When I tell Bruce that Arsenal have won it, he'll be jumping about like a boy again."
Kai looked down at the bowl in his hands.
It suddenly felt heavier than it should.
"I can't promise that," he said honestly.
She nodded, unfazed. "Then just work hard. That's enough. No one blames someone who gives everything."
—
The drive back was quiet.
Rain tapped steadily against the windshield, but Kai barely noticed it.
Her words stayed with him.
Football was more than matches, more than results.
For some, it carried memory. For others, it carried a connection.
Even now, it could hold together two people separated by life and death.
Mrs. Winter had spent years watching, remembering, holding onto every moment Arsenal created.
In her own way, she had already lived through countless stories with the club.
Kai tightened his grip on the steering wheel slightly.
Then what was his role?
To finish it.
To bring it to the one place every player and every supporter looked toward.
The Champions League.
That goal had been around him for a long time, in conversations, in expectations, in quiet moments like this.
It brought pressure. It brought doubt.
But beneath all of that, one thing was clear.
He wanted it. He wanted it badly.
Not for the headlines. Not for the noise.
For people like her.
. . .
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