Wembley Stadium.
Every Arsenal player on the pitch and on the bench, along with the backroom staff, broke into a run the moment the final whistle sounded. Not a dignified trot toward the centre circle — a proper run, the kind driven by something that had been building for thirteen matches and had finally been allowed to release.
This was Arsenal's fourteenth Community Shield title. Only Manchester United and Liverpool had won it more often. But the number on the trophy mattered less than the number on the head-to-head record, which had read thirteen without a win against this particular opponent and now read something else entirely. The curse, as people had taken to calling it, was gone.
Arteta caught Ramsey's eye across the celebrating group.
"Do you remember what Mourinho said after we lost six-nil to them? When Wenger didn't come to the press conference?"
Ramsey's mouth curled. He adopted a Portuguese lilt that was barely adequate. "Next time I lose a match, I won't attend the post-match press conference either, because my injured players need comforting and the team bus is waiting."
"So," David said, appearing at Ramsey's shoulder, "do we think he'll come to the press conference today?"
"Not a chance. And don't underestimate how deep this goes between them. Look over there."
David followed Ramsey's nod toward the two touchlines. Wenger and Mourinho were standing within ten metres of each other. Neither acknowledged the other existed. The handshake that football protocol suggested should happen was not going to happen today, and probably not any day soon.
Maybe it would take one of them leaving the game entirely before the genuine mutual respect they almost certainly felt could be expressed without it looking like weakness. Until then, the cold war would continue.
David filed it away as one of English football's defining textures and followed his teammates toward the tunnel.
In the corridor, Mourinho was already there. His expression, which had carried various degrees of frustration since the sixty-first minute, had been replaced by something more composed. When David passed, the Portuguese manager turned and extended his hand.
"Today was a very good performance from you. Especially the third goal. I think if—"
Wenger appeared around the corner, saw the exchange, and placed a hand on David's shoulder without breaking stride.
"Go and get changed. The ceremony is in thirty minutes and we need to be ready. Today we are the winners."
Mourinho watched him go and pressed his lips together. A beat passed.
"Winners?" The word came out accompanied by something that was almost, but not quite, a laugh. "A shield nobody cares about — if that satisfies you, then I can only congratulate you, because your requirements are very modest." He paused. "I am different. When I lose to the same opponent repeatedly, I sit with the problem and I find the answer. I don't celebrate a single victory as though it changes everything."
He turned and walked away.
David had expected to see Wenger's jaw tighten. Instead, the Frenchman's expression was almost serene.
"He's not wrong, you know," Wenger said quietly. "The Community Shield is not a major honour. But he's missed something. A person who cannot find joy in winning — that person won't last long in this game. Passion is the thing that keeps football fresh for the people who play it. You'll understand that better as the years go on."
"I think I already do," David said.
In the dressing room, Giroud arrived with a bottle of champagne and placed it in David's hands with the ceremony of someone presenting a coronation gift.
"The man of the match opens the bottle."
"This belongs to all of us," David said. "This is a team result."
"Yes, yes, of course — now shake it and spray it everywhere."
David held the bottle up, let the cork go, and when the foam erupted over his hands and his shirt and the people nearest him, he let himself think — just for a moment — about what came after this. Not the shield. Not the friendly trophies. The league. Europe. The things that would still be there in fifteen years when someone looked back at this period and said: that was when it changed.
Wenger, standing slightly apart from the chaos, applauded with his palms together, watching the youngest player in the room with the expression of someone whose investment has already begun to pay compound interest.
The presentation ceremony followed in half an hour.
Chelsea received their runners-up medals first. Mourinho took his, looked at it briefly, and threw it up into the stands in the direction of a small child. He had done the same with a Premier League runners-up medal years earlier. His explanation to the press, when asked, was that he kept no medals for finishing second.
The real reason, as everyone who had watched him long enough understood, was that José Mourinho found losing intolerable and losing to Arsenal today was in a category of its own.
Then it was Arsenal's turn. FA Chairman Greg Dyke placed the medals around each player's neck with the efficient warmth of someone who had done this many times. David examined his briefly and noted, without saying anything aloud, that the craftsmanship was somewhat less impressive than what had been produced in Warsaw.
"Can I come and see your Europa League medal sometime?" Giroud asked. "I've never actually won anything in Europe. Montpellier, Arsenal — nothing."
"Come round whenever you want. I've also got the trophy."
"The trophy? You bought the Parma one?"
"I had Barnett arrange it."
Giroud made a sound that contained several emotions simultaneously.
"No MVP award for this competition," Arteta said, looking at David with something that was close to fondness. "Otherwise you'd be going home with another one."
He thought about the decision he had made, seasons ago, to take a pay cut rather than leave Arsenal. He had renewed his contract this year. Standing here now felt like vindication.
"Mikel," David said, "you're studying for your coaching badges, aren't you? Is it difficult?"
"I just finished the UEFA B licence. Not as hard as it sounds, but it's entry-level — you can manage amateur sides over sixteen or work as an assistant at a professional club. The A licence is the serious one. Six months, forty hours of practical work in a club environment."
"Interesting."
Arteta looked at him sideways. "You're seventeen, Qin. Wenger is not going to retire to make room for you."
"I'm just curious. I've only got five trophies so far. Career's barely started."
The eye-rolls from his teammates were unanimous.
"You know," Cazorla said, with the tone of someone who has genuinely only just noticed something, "before the league season has even kicked off, we're apparently a treble-winning club."
Nobody took this entirely seriously, given the relative weight of the three competitions involved. But David was already moving toward the trophy presentation area.
"A winner's medal is a winner's medal," he said. "Come on, let's go and pick it up."
Čech appeared at his side. "You do know the Community Shield trophy is a disc, like the Bundesliga plate. No handles to lift. Your dream of raising a cup over your head will have to wait."
"Same difference," David said, putting his arm around Čech's shoulders. "Petr, those saves today were something else."
Čech started to say something, stopped himself, reconsidered.
"I was going to say I'm no match for a certain other goalkeeper," he said carefully. "But that's not a conversation for today."
"I'll tell you this much," David said, spinning the medal by its ribbon. "Your future here is considerably better than your future there would have been."
Čech smiled at that and left it alone.
The presentation area had a board reading WINNERS, which felt appropriate. Arteta lifted the disc with both hands and the confetti cannons fired behind them, filling the Wembley air with red and white. Each player's face carried a version of the same expression — the particular relief and pleasure of having beaten an opponent who had beaten you repeatedly for far too long.
Wenger positioned himself at the edge of the frame and let the players occupy the centre.
Afterwards, David was led to the interview board by a stadium official, where Ian Wright was waiting with a microphone and an expression that suggested he had been looking forward to this conversation.
Wright's own story was not so different in its early chapters. He had grown up in South-East London and spent years being turned down, playing in lower leagues while he worked as a bricklayer to pay his way, until someone finally recognised what was there. He had arrived at Arsenal as their record signing and answered the fee with twenty-four goals in thirty games. The old, stiff club had never quite been the same after him.
"Congratulations on the title and on your debut performance," Wright said. "How are you feeling?"
"Grateful," David said. He had decided to be measured in front of the cameras. "Grateful for the team and for everyone who supported us today."
"That's not quite the impression you gave during the match," Wright said, with a grin. "Leading the crowd in a song against the Chelsea supporters was a different kind of grateful."
"Kevin is the same way," David said, turning briefly toward the nearest camera with one eye closed. "That's probably why we get along."
In his flat in Manchester, De Bruyne saw it and laughed.
"What's next for you?" Wright asked. "What do you want from this season?"
David let the studied modesty go.
"Winning today hasn't reduced my appetite at all," he said. "I think I'm still improving. And the desire to win more — it's stronger now than it was before the first whistle. I want my teammates to feel the same thing."
Wright looked at him for a long moment.
"I was a loud, extroverted player," he said. "Caused trouble sometimes because of it. But I changed Arsenal. I took on the old image of the club, the stuffy Boring Arsenal reputation, and I went at it. And eventually people loved me for it." He paused. "I met Wenger too late. Don't waste a moment of having him while you do."
"I won't."
The photograph that resulted from their handshake — Arsenal's current number ten and their legendary former number eight — appeared on several back pages the following morning.
The coverage that day was extensive.
The Daily Telegraph: "The effect David Qin has on this Arsenal team is already visible. His intelligence, his pace, his invention — the Gunners attack has a different cadence with him in it. When the ball reaches his feet, the stadium leans forward."
The Guardian: "The ninety-million-pound man delivered a debut of startling quality. Two goals, one assist, and a performance that suggested the fee may eventually look like a bargain."
BBC Sport: "By the numbers: 59 passes, 54 successful. 18 one-on-one duels attempted, 15 won. WhoScored rating: 10.0."
De Bruyne, interviewed separately, kept it simple. "Nothing David does surprises me. He is exactly the kind of player who produces moments like today. I look forward to facing him — and I won't be going easy on him."
Arsenal's official social media confirmed David as the club's internal player of the match. The FourFourTwo magazine published his photograph on the cover of its next issue: the image of him wagging his finger at the Chelsea end, face tilted upward, half-smiling. The caption read: That's King for you — a player with extraordinary talent and skills.
The Chinese online reaction needed no translation.
@ArsenalfanBJ: He came in and immediately went berserk. Two goals and an assist on debut.
@TacticalGnome_GZ: Look at the stats. More terrifying than anything in the Bundesliga. Arsenal's passing game suits him even better than Wolfsburg did — more space to accelerate into in the final third.
@RealistCN_AFC: Chelsea weren't at full strength. Worth remembering.
@NorthBankNoodles: Mourinho threw his medal into the crowd again. Priceless.
@TransferMathGuy: Premier League starts in seven days. First game: West Ham. This is going to be a season.
@LayGooner88: If they don't collapse in spring like always, this squad can actually win the league.
Arsenal trained the following morning as though the trophy had already been filed away. Fitness work, tactical organisation, combinations. The process continued uninterrupted.
On August 5th, a Bugatti Veyron arrived at David's house in Hadley Wood.
The car was red and black and worth one and a quarter million pounds, and it had been sent by Bugatti — technically a Volkswagen Group brand — whose marketing department had studied the Chinese sales data attached to David's name and concluded that the most efficient use of a very expensive car was to give it to him. They had originally wanted Ronaldo for the campaign. The Volkswagen connection had rearranged their priorities.
David stood in his driveway and looked at it for a while.
It was, objectively, extraordinary looking.
The problem was that he turned eighteen in September and was not yet in possession of a driving licence, which meant the car was currently a very expensive ornament. He had no particular desire to test whether Wenger's goodwill extended to collecting him from a police station on the eve of a Premier League season, so the Veyron would remain in the garage until he could find the time to sit his test.
He went back inside and made himself a cup of tea.
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