GRANDMAESTA_30
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Chapter 166: Match Loading...
🕑 Added 2025-10-04 15:16:16 +0000 UTCEarly in the morning, Kai was already awake, lacing up his trainers before the sun had fully broken over the rooftops. He slipped outside for his usual run. The air was crisp, almost biting, and every breath carried with it a freshness that momentarily eased his mind. For a few minutes, with his legs moving rhythmically and his heartbeat steady, he felt calm, even light.
But that calm never lasted long. The moment his thoughts turned back to the upcoming Champions League knockout stage, the heaviness returned. It was as though a stone lodged itself deep in his chest.
Bayern Munich.
One of Europe’s true giants. A side that had humbled them last season. Beating them now felt like trying to scale a mountain that never ended.
When he returned home, Kai moved through his morning routine almost mechanically. A quick shower and brush of the teeth, towel draped around his shoulders, then standing in front of the mirror with a hair dryer in one hand.
His haircut from the day before—sharper sides, a little length left in the middle—needed the finishing touch. He carefully dried it back into place before unscrewing the lid of a small tin and applying the white cream across his chin.
The razor slid cleanly as he trimmed. At twenty, his beard had begun to come in well, though it lacked the thick, rugged look of some of his European teammates.
It was coming, but it needed care.
Patience.
Once done, he stepped back and inspected himself in the mirror. The slicked-back style held neatly, his jaw clean, his features sharper than before. A determined face stared back at him.
“Come on,” he muttered to his reflection, almost like a command.
Dressed in fresh Arsenal training gear, he pulled his suitcase from the bedroom and stepped into the brisk morning air.
Before heading to the training ground, Kai stopped at Mrs. Winter’s, as he so often did. The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered.
“A glass of milk and a breakfast roll, please,” he said, already smiling.
Mrs. Winter bustled about, and within minutes, she placed the steaming food and drink before him. Her eyes twinkled with a grandmotherly warmth as she said, “You’ll win, lad. I can feel it in these rickety bones of mine.”
Kai paused, caught off guard by the certainty in her voice. Then he grinned, shaking his head. “I hope so.”
“If you make it to the Champions League final,” she added, wagging a playful finger, “I’ll be there in the stands cheering you on myself.”
Kai laughed at the image. “Then I’ll do everything I can to make sure that happens.”
She watched him leave with a fond smile.
“What a player. What a fine young man,” she murmured to herself as the door shut behind him.
By eight o’clock, Kai had reached the Colney training base. The team bus was already parked outside, Wenger standing by the entrance as though he had been waiting all morning.
“Good morning, Professor!” Kai called out as he approached.
Wenger gave him a quick once-over, noting the fresh haircut, and chuckled. “Nice hair. You look ready.”
Kai brushed a hand across his head, grinning. “Feels good too.”
Inside, the dressing room buzzed with the sound of zippers, boots thudding against bags, and snippets of conversation. Teammates packed their gear, exchanging brief words as they prepared for the trip. Kai nodded greetings as he passed, collecting his own kit before hauling both bag and suitcase toward the bus.
Soon, one by one, the Arsenal players filed aboard. When Wenger finally stepped inside and gave a simple, “Let’s go,” the bus rumbled forward.
The scene outside was remarkable. Hundreds of Arsenal fans had gathered by the gates, waving scarves, singing at the top of their lungs, applauding as the bus rolled past. Their chants filled the air, proud and defiant, a wall of sound that pushed through the February chill.
Kai turned to look out of the window, his heart swelling at the sight. This was football. This was why the game mattered so much. Beyond the media cameras flashing furiously, beyond the reporters shouting questions, he spotted a group of young boys at the very edge of the crowd. They wore Arsenal youth kits, eyes wide with longing as they watched their heroes drive past.
Kai smiled faintly. Two years ago, that had been him.
Once the bus left the crowd behind, silence returned inside. Some players slumped back into their seats for extra sleep, others pulled out phones to play games or watch videos. Kai slipped in his Sony headphones and opened his screen to watch Bayern’s recent matches, his eyes narrowing as he studied their pressing patterns and midfield movements.
Two hours later, the squad touched down in Munich.
The entire arrivals hall at Munich Airport was a wall of flashing cameras and raised microphones. Reporters packed shoulder to shoulder, standing on tiptoe and craning their necks toward the sliding glass doors of the international exit.
“There they are!” someone shouted, and in an instant, the crowd of journalists surged forward.
One by one, the Arsenal players emerged, dressed in crisp red polo shirts, their expressions calm and unreadable. At the front of the group, as always, was Arsène Wenger, striding purposefully with Pat Rice by his side.
“Arsène, how will Arsenal prepare to face Guardiola’s Bayern?”
“Will Bayern’s injury list give you the upper hand?”
“Can you give us your predictions for tonight?”
The barrage of questions followed Wenger like a hailstorm, but the Frenchman’s gaze remained fixed straight ahead. He didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge, didn’t even glance sideways. His players followed suit, keeping their heads down and their mouths firmly shut.
Luis Suárez, Kai, and Santi Cazorla drew the brunt of the media attention, microphones shoved toward them in desperation. But the trio ignored the noise, barely sparing the reporters a glance.
Wenger had made his position clear before the flight: no interviews, no distractions.
Even so, some journalists tried to slip through security and intercept Kai.
“You limited Robben to seventy minutes last season—how long do you expect to contain him this time?”
“Robben says he’ll break through your wall tonight. What’s your response?”
Kai didn’t bite. He shifted slightly to the left, allowing security staff to push the reporters back, then strode forward with the same calm, steady rhythm as before. His silence was louder than any headline.
The Arsenal squad pressed on in disciplined silence, boarded their waiting bus, and rolled away from the airport.
By midday, the Gunners checked into their Munich hotel. Barely had they set down their bags before boarding the bus again, this time bound for training.
For away matches, Arsenal always arranged to rent a local ground. Here in Munich, they had struck a deal with 1860 Munich, Bayern’s historic city rivals, to use their training facility for the day.
If Arsenal’s welcome at the airport had been chaotic, the reception at 1860 Munich’s ground was warm, even enthusiastic. Staff and supporters of the fallen club greeted the Londoners like old friends.
For 1860 Munich, Bayern weren’t rivals anymore—they were a machine, a supergiant that had grown far beyond their reach. Once upon a time, back in the 1950s and 60s, 1860 had been the pride of Munich. But while Bayern marched on to dominate Europe, 1860 slipped into decline, eventually selling their stake in the Allianz Arena and retreating to the modest Grünwalder Stadion.
Now, competing in Germany’s second tier, they were united with Arsenal in a simple sentiment: if we can’t beat Bayern, let’s welcome the ones who might.
The facilities, however, were basic at best. The grass was patchy, the equipment outdated, the gym bare. For a club of Arsenal’s stature, it felt like a throwback to another era.
Kai glanced around, recalling the far better conditions he had once seen, even in domestic youth setups. But there was no complaint from the players. They didn’t need cutting-edge facilities today—just a quiet place to stretch, run, and sharpen minds.
Training was sharp, disciplined, and entirely behind closed doors. Not a single camera or reporter was allowed near the pitch.
By late afternoon, the session wound down. The players returned to their hotel, shared a simple dinner, and gathered for one last tactical meeting. Wenger spoke clearly and firmly, drilling home his points. Afterward, he dismissed them to their rooms with instructions to rest and switch off.
But Munich had other ideas.
From eight o’clock onward, the night outside became a cacophony. Bayern supporters gathered outside the Arsenal hotel, blowing whistles, chanting songs, banging drums, and even letting off the occasional firework.
Kai, unfazed, simply pulled his headphones from his bag, slipped them in, and queued up some soft music. For a professional, this was nothing new. In fact, the noise only made his focus sharper. Within half an hour, he was asleep, unbothered, resting for the storm ahead.
…
The morning of matchday dawned crisp and bright.
Kai awoke refreshed, his body humming with energy. Every stretch, every breath, felt clean and powerful. As he padded across to the hotel window, he pulled back the curtains and paused.
There it was—the Allianz Arena, rising like a glowing fortress against the skyline. The early sunlight shimmered off its outer shell, the entire stadium bathed in a pale, golden glow.
Kai narrowed his eyes, his lips pressing into the faintest of smiles. His gaze burned with intensity.
