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Chapter 147: Paris Takes Notes
🕑 Added 2025-09-15 14:58:14 +0000 UTCThe award ceremony began promptly at seven in the evening.
Outside the Châtelet Theatre in Paris, a thick cluster of media crews waited in the crisp air, lenses trained on every arriving figure. Each time a player, scout, manager, or head coach stepped onto the carpet, cameras erupted in a staccato of flashes.
Tonight's gathering was awash with football's glittering names, but not everyone was here for the main prizes. Among the guests drawing quiet admiration was Arsenal's nineteen-year-old midfield anchor, Kai—already one of Europe's most coveted defensive midfielders.
The French weekly France Football was set to hand out its usual collection of accolades: the Ballon d'Or, the Golden Boy, Europe's Best Coach, and Best Scout. Tucked lower on the billing was the European Best Young Team award—less glamorous than the top individual trophies, but still a powerful nod to rising talent.
Kai knew as much. This was encouragement, not immortality.
Jonathan Barnett had flown in that morning to accompany his client. Kai arrived in a sharp, charcoal suit bought on a quick London spree. Together they worked the room, shaking hands with club executives who sized him up with barely hidden interest.
A nineteen-year-old who reads the game like a veteran? That's the foundation of a side for the next decade.
Forwards could be hired like mercenaries; midfield generals were the bedrock. Poach the heart of a team and the whole structure trembled—Liverpool after Xabi Alonso came to mind.
The social pleasantries were exhausting. Kai's practiced smile felt frozen after half an hour. At last, he murmured an excuse to Barnett and retreated to his seat for a breather.
A hand tapped his shoulder.
"Thierry!"
Kai's eyes lit up. Thierry Henry grinned, offering a handshake before pulling him into a brief hug.
"I spotted you the moment I walked in," Henry said. "Why aren't you making the rounds?"
Kai chuckled. "I've spoken to half the room already. I'm not built for this much small talk."
Henry laughed warmly. "You'll have to get used to it. It comes with the territory."
He turned and waved across the aisle. "Pat! Over here!"
Kai looked up to see Patrick Vieira—towering and unmistakable—threading his way through the seats with a broad smile.
"Well, well," Vieira said, pointing playfully. "Isn't this Arsenal's number four?"
Their shared lineage—same club, same shirt number—gave the encounter an easy familiarity.
"I just hope I'm not tarnishing it," Kai replied with a grin.
Vieira dismissed the thought with a wave. "Not a chance. You're doing it proud."
The three of them settled into an effortless conversation, Arsenal past and present trading stories like old teammates.
"I'm calling it a day in December," Henry admitted after a moment.
Both Kai and Vieira nodded. The timing made sense.
Henry spared them the awkward question of why he wouldn't finish at the Emirates. "I've already signed on with Sky Sports. I'll be on commentary and doing a bit of ambassador work." He winked at Kai. "If you ever want some good press, just tip me off that you're flying in training. I'll sing your praises on air and make myself look like a genius."
Kai laughed. "Would that count as a shady deal? Go ahead—do it every week if you like."
Their laughter blended with the rising buzz in the theatre.
The cause was obvious: the two brightest stars in world football had arrived. Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo stepped into the hall, and the atmosphere shifted as if someone had flicked a switch. Heads turned, camera flashes flared.
Kai briefly considered asking for an autograph, but thought better of it and stayed seated.
Rows near the front were reserved for the headline nominees—Ballon d'Or contenders, Golden Boy finalists. Kai's seat was a little further back.
The ceremony finally got underway. The first presentation was for the European Best Young Team.
Kai and the other eleven selections filed onto the stage to a generous applause. Managers and scouts in the audience watched intently, each young player a potential cornerstone for their clubs.
Player statistics filled the big screen. There was a ripple of surprise as the numbers beside Kai's name appeared:
Kai – 19 years old – Arsenal, Premier League
77 senior matches: averages of 4 successful tackles, 3 interceptions, 4 key break-ups per game
A low murmur rolled through the crowd before settling again. For a defensive midfielder barely out of his teens, the data spoke louder than any headline.
The numbers on the giant screen were dazzling—almost enough to make people blink.
Several club executives stared at the data, then at Kai himself, their expressions lit with a quiet, unmistakable hunger.
“How can that even be a player?” one scout muttered under his breath. “That’s not a midfielder—that’s a moving wall.”
What most of the audience didn’t know was that the figures on display were slightly understated. Kai’s official averages for tackles and interceptions had been smoothed down.
In reality, once Arsenal gave him greater tactical freedom midway through the previous season, his ball-winning numbers had climbed to a level few could match—seven or eight decisive defensive actions a game, sometimes more.
High in the VIP section, Paris Saint-Germain chairman Nasser Al-Khelaifi leaned toward his assistant, eyes never leaving the stage.
“Get in touch with Kai’s agent the moment we’re back in Paris,” he murmured. “Sound them out quietly. And have Wang reach out to Kai himself—see if he’s open to a move.”
The assistant hesitated. “Do we have a ceiling on salary?”
Nasser’s gaze sharpened. “No ceiling. The highest bracket we can offer. If he’s willing, we pay whatever it takes.”
The aide nodded once and slipped away into the crowd. Nasser clapped politely with the rest of the hall, but his mind was already running through contract figures and midfield combinations at the Parc des Princes.
He was hardly alone. Around the theatre, other club directors exchanged subtle glances and made their own mental calculations. A nineteen-year-old midfield general with those defensive metrics? In the Premier League of all places.
Every ambitious side in Europe would at least make a phone call.
Down on stage, Kai remained blissfully unaware of the scramble his stats had triggered. He accepted the European Best Young Team trophy from the presenter and joined the other honorees for a brief photo call before returning to his seat.
He turned the award over in his hands, a grin spreading across his face. It wasn’t the Ballon d’Or, but it was still his first continental honour.
He thought back to the Premier League’s Young Player of the Season award from months earlier—nice enough, but strictly domestic. This felt bigger, a recognition from all of Europe that he truly belonged.
The ceremony moved briskly to its next highlight: the Golden Boy Award.
Kai glanced a few seats over and noticed Paul Pogba bouncing his foot, restless with anticipation. Pogba had sparkled in Serie A, though his Premier League form had been more uneven. Even so, the Frenchman was the heavy favourite.
The host confirmed it moments later. “The Golden Boy Award goes to… Paul Pogba!”
The theatre erupted in applause as Pogba sprang to his feet and jogged to the stage, his trademark smile impossible to miss. Kai joined the ovation, clapping warmly for a fellow midfielder.
Time flowed on, and the evening built to its climax: the Ballon d’Or. The room tightened with expectation as the spotlight swung between Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi, and Franck Ribéry.
When the host finally called Ronaldo’s name, the audience answered with a roar.
The Portuguese star strode forward, delighted—four years after his last triumph, he was once again crowned the world’s best. Cameras flashed like lightning as he lifted the golden sphere, his grin wide and unguarded.
With that, the ceremony drew to a close and the crowd began to rise, conversations buzzing about what they’d just witnessed—and about the young Arsenal midfielder whose numbers had stolen half the headlines.
