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Chapter 143: N'Golo Kanté
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 14:30:54 +0000 UTCThe training pitches at Colney were alive with energy. Every Arsenal player seemed sharper, hungrier, more determined. The team’s recent surge in form had lit a fire under the squad; nobody wanted to lose their place in Wenger’s starting XI, and everyone wanted to ride this wave of momentum into the next stretch of the season.
Arsenal’s sessions had a new focal point: the tactical system being built around Kai.
But Wenger, ever observant, had noticed a growing issue.
The demands on Kai were enormous. He was asked to orchestrate the build-up, dictate the passing rhythm, and simultaneously hold the line defensively. It was as though three jobs had been bundled into one, and even a player as driven as Kai couldn’t possibly execute it all to perfection.
Kai needed help.
In years gone by, Wenger might have resisted this line of thinking. The Professor had been a purist, fixated on technical superiority and ball retention. His vision of football was almost utopian: a system in which every player carried world-class technical quality and every cog meshed seamlessly.
But reality, with all its bruises and disappointments, had softened Wenger’s stance. Balance mattered more than perfection. Skill was vital, yes, but resilience and defensive steel were non-negotiable. Beautiful football meant little if it cracked under pressure.
Now, Wenger’s philosophy was shifting. It wasn’t about eleven soloists anymore — it was about complementarity. Cover weaknesses, magnify strengths, and make the collective stronger than the sum of its parts.
He thought of Mertesacker: alone, his lack of pace could be ruthlessly exposed. But with Kai sweeping in front, intercepting danger and shielding space, the German suddenly looked far more secure, able to lean on his intelligence and aerial dominance rather than being dragged into foot races.
Wenger was convinced: the transformation had to continue. Arsenal needed to evolve. But the evolution also meant Kai required a partner in midfield — someone who could shoulder the creative burden and free him to thrive as the enforcer.
That thought still lingered as he turned to his long-serving assistant.
“Pat, I’ll need you to run things here for a few days. I have to make a trip.”
Pat Rice gave a simple nod. He’d heard that tone before — Wenger was going scouting again. The January window was close, and Arsenal’s recruitment plans were sharpening.
“Any particular target?” Pat asked quietly.
Wenger’s eyes narrowed with purpose. “I’ll start in Caen. Then Italy, Genoa. The scouts have given me strong reports, but I want to judge with my own eyes. Some things you can’t see on paper.”
“When do you leave?”
“Tonight.”
…
On the training pitch, the internal match ticked on. The system, once again, revolved around Kai.
He worked hard, snapping into tackles, spraying passes, covering ground — but something was off. The rhythm felt unnatural. His play looked forced, almost mechanical. He trudged off during a break, sweat dripping, his expression clouded with frustration.
Arteta noticed him immediately.
Kai grabbed a bottle of water, downed a few gulps, then walked over.
“This feels wrong,” Kai muttered, clearly disheartened.
Arteta raised an eyebrow. “I can see it.”
Kai blinked. “You can?”
Arteta chuckled. “Of course. You’re trying to copy me. You think I wouldn’t recognise my own style?”
Kai scratched his cheek sheepishly. “I haven’t quite figured out the right way to approach it. Thought I’d try running things like you. But it just feels… heavy. Forced. Like I’m suffocating out there. Am I anywhere close?”
Arteta gave a small smile. “You’re close, yes. But it doesn’t suit you. That’s why you feel trapped.”
Kai sighed, shoulders slumping. “That’s what I thought. It doesn’t fit, but I’m short on ideas. I’m trying to find inspiration.”
Arteta leaned in slightly, speaking with a mix of warmth and honesty.
“Listen. Innovation doesn’t come from imitating the wrong people. Correct imitation is the foundation. And you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Then who should I learn from?” Kai asked, sounding more desperate than defiant.
Arteta’s tone shifted, more analytical now. “Your game is full of aggression and energy. You’re not wired to sit deep like I do, waiting to pull strings cautiously. Your instincts are more explosive, more direct. Honestly, you’re a box-to-box midfielder at heart. The problem is, the manager doesn’t want to waste your defensive strength, so he keeps you deeper. That’s why you’re stuck.”
Kai tilted his head. “So who, then?”
Arteta didn’t hesitate. “Yaya Touré. That’s who you should study. He’s the blueprint for you.”
Kai’s eyes widened. “B2B?”
B2B football has always been synonymous with versatility, demanding a blend of technical sharpness, stamina, and positional intelligence. But at this stage, Kai’s ball control and his ability to escape pressure weren’t quite suited for that style.
“I’m not entirely sure how to guide you here,” Arteta admitted with a shrug, “but maybe you should study Yaya Touré’s game. His balance of power and drive might give you something to work with.”
Kai nodded thoughtfully, but he knew this wasn’t something he could figure out alone. When in doubt, he always went to Pat Rice.
An old hand in the family is like a treasure chest—you never know what wisdom you’ll find inside.
When Kai posed his question, Pat leaned back and gave him a measured look. “Don’t rush it. Playing box-to-box requires a system to support you, and the current Arsenal side simply isn’t built for that yet. Think about it—if you push forward, who’s covering your back? Ramsey? Arteta? Flamini? None of them can shield you consistently. If you lose the ball high up the pitch, our back line is left completely exposed.”
Kai scratched his cheek awkwardly. Pat was right. His forward surges already came with risks, and one missed recovery run could leave the defence hanging out to dry.
“So… there’s really no way around it?” Kai asked with a sigh.
Pat shook his head, smiling faintly. “Not exactly. It’s not hopeless. You’ll just need the right partner. Someone who can give you the freedom to step forward without fear. Trust me—when the time’s right, the boss will find you a ‘bodyguard.’”
“Bodyguard?” Kai chuckled. “I thought I was supposed to be the bodyguard around here.”
Pat only laughed, offering no more than that.
Three days went by, and Wenger was still absent, reportedly on a scouting trip. The squad carried on as usual, no one reading much into it. But the first thing Wenger did upon his return was summon Kai into his office.
Inside, a laptop sat open on the desk. Wenger gestured for him to sit. A Ligue 2 match was playing on the screen, grainy but enough to see what mattered.
For ninety minutes, they watched together, Kai with headphones on, studying the movements of a stocky black midfielder from Caen. His energy never seemed to dip—interceptions, tackles, recoveries.
When the match ended, Kai pulled the headphones down and exhaled.
Wenger turned, eyes sharp. “Well? What do you make of him? How’s his reading of the game, his tackling, his interceptions?”
Kai didn’t hesitate. “Buy him, Professor.”
Wenger raised his brows. “You’re that sure?”
Kai's eyes flicked back to the frozen frame of the player celebrating with a silly, wide smile.
N’Golo Kanté.
To most of the football world, still an unknown quantity. To Kai, though, he looked like the perfect fit—the kind of relentless midfield machine who could sweep up everything behind him.
In the future, Kai knew his own game would evolve towards dictating tempo, threading passes, and orchestrating play. That didn’t conflict with Kanté—it complemented him. One would organize, the other would destroy. Two enforcers stationed in front of the defence.
With Kanté patrolling beside him, Arsenal’s midfield would feel like a fortress with double-locked gates. Any opponent daring to come through would leave battered and frustrated. Add Cazorla pulling strings from deep, and suddenly the balance looked like a championship-winning midfield.
Kai leaned forward and spoke with intensity. “Professor, he is cut of my cloth.”
Wenger regarded him curiously. It wasn’t often Kai became this serious if not was about game day or training. But Wenger also trusted his judgement. Despite his age, Kai had already established himself as one of the best tacklers and interceptors in the league. If anyone could recognise the value of a true midfield partner, it was him.
“I’ll consider it,” Wenger said at last, stroking his chin. “I’ll put in a tentative bid.”
“That’s not enough,” Kai pressed. “We can’t afford to let him slip away. Please, Professor—buy him.”
Wenger chuckled, waving him off. “Alright, alright, go on now. Back to training. Let me handle this.”
When the door shut, Wenger lingered, staring at the paused frame of Kanté again. The boy wasn’t tall, wasn’t flashy, but his anticipation and ground coverage were remarkable. If he really could complement Kai…
Wenger leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin. He was tempted. Very tempted.
