"The 2013–2014 Premier League season is about to reach its final round. Arsenal and Chelsea remain locked in a tight title race, with only a single point separating the two. The upcoming 38th round of the Premier League will decide who lifts the trophy. Fans from..."
Billy sat at home, eyes fixed on the TV as the sports news anchor's voice echoed through the living room. His heart was pounding.
For weeks, Arsenal's title chase had left him restless. Every day, he'd drift off into daydreams—imagining the moment the Gunners would lift that silver trophy again.
Ten years.
It had been a full decade since Arsenal last won the Premier League.
A decade of frustration, of settling for Top Four. A decade of rivals mocking them as the Fourth-Place Specialists.
But now, things were different. Arsenal were back—fighting, believing, and just ninety minutes away from ending the drought.
Billy took a deep breath.
"Imagine it," he murmured to himself. "Wenger holding that trophy again. Kai leading the team out. Chelsea crushed at the Emirates..."
The thought alone made his chest tighten with excitement.
He grabbed his jacket and keys.
"I'm heading out," he muttered. Moments later, the sound of his car faded into the distance.
Half an hour later, Billy pushed open the door of the Oak Bar.
Even though it was only Thursday, the place was buzzing. Arsenal shirts, scarves, and laughter filled the air.
"Pint, please!" he called out.
A few seconds later, Meadows slid a cold glass across the counter. "You and half of North London, Billy."
Billy chuckled after taking a long sip. "Crowded today, huh?"
Meadows smirked. "They're all like you—can't sit still at home."
Billy laughed. "Is it that obvious?"
"Mate," Meadows said, wiping down a glass, "we're two days away from the biggest match in ten years. Arsenal versus Chelsea for the title. Who can relax right now? People just need to be around other Gunners—talk, argue, hope."
Billy leaned in slightly. "You see that billboard across from London Bridge? The one that says, 'Forward! Arsenal!' Who did that?"
Meadows grinned. "Old Hawke."
Billy nearly spat out his drink. "You're joking! The same Hawke who swore nine years ago he'd never support Arsenal again?"
"The very one," Meadows said, laughing boisterously.
Old Hawke was something of a legend among the Arsenal faithful. A property tycoon, loud as a megaphone, generous as they came.
Back in Arsenal's glory years, he'd rented planes to fly banners across London—'In Arsène We Trust!'—and even donated to the club when they were too broke to sign players.
But when Wenger sold Vieira in 2005, Hawke lost it. He'd vowed never to back Arsenal again. And true to his word, he disappeared—until now.
This week, his massive "Forward! Arsenal!" billboard had gone up in full view of London Bridge.
Billy shook his head, grinning. "Guess he never really stopped loving the club."
"Nah," Meadows said. "He just needed a reason to believe again. And this season gave him one. Funny thing—since August, all the old faces have come crawling back. They act tough, but when Arsenal's winning, none of them can resist it."
Billy questioned. "Heard he's even been seen in Arsenal gear?"
"Yeah," Meadows chuckled as he shined the beer glasses. "David spotted him queuing for one at the official store. Said he wanted one for luck."
Billy laughed, swirling his drink. "So it's Kai, huh? He brought them all back?"
Meadows shrugged with a smile. "Maybe. That lad's got something special. You can feel it when he plays—energy, heart, that old Arsenal fire."
Billy nodded slowly. "Yeah... that celebration of his after every goal—the one at the East Stand. Makes you feel like you're part of it."
Meadows pointed with his shining cloth. "Tell me about it. East Stand tickets are gold dust these days. People want to be close to that moment."
They even set up a special interactive celebration area — a section where the folding seats could be tucked away to form a standing terrace.
It had quickly become the liveliest corner of the stadium, the heartbeat of the home support. Arsenal's die-hard fans loved it. Everyone wanted a spot there — close enough to shout, sing, and even exchange a few words with Kai. Those tickets were almost impossible to get now.
Meadows and Billy were chatting over their pints when a sudden roar burst out from the crowd inside the bar.
They turned, startled, and saw fans raising their arms, cheering at the screen.
The television was playing a clip from ten years ago — Arsenal lifting the Premier League trophy.
The footage was grainy, the resolution poor, but the faces were unmistakable: Vieira, Henry, Pires... legends in red and white.
For a moment, the entire bar seemed to travel back in time. The crowd on-screen erupted, the old Highbury stands swaying as the Gunners celebrated another title.
The cheers from the TV filled the pub, and then gradually, the noise faded. Everyone stood quietly, eyes fixed on that piece of history.
"Arsenal are champions," Billy murmured, his voice trembling slightly. "God, that was beautiful."
"No one's craved this title more than us," Meadows added softly. "Ten years... we've waited too damn long."
Feeling the nostalgic atmosphere thicken, Billy raised his pint and said loudly. "To Kai! To Arsenal! And to finally bring the title home!"
Glasses clinked across the bar as the Arsenal faithful shouted along.
"To Finally Bringing The Title Home!!!"
...
Later that evening, Arsenal manager Martin Hughes sat down for an interview with Sky Sports.
"These past ten years," Hughes said with a weary smile, "have been agonizing for all of us. So much has gone wrong — and half the time, we couldn't even explain why. We've had enough, honestly. But the blows just kept coming."
He paused, letting out a slow sigh.
"I work for Arsenal, but I'm also an Arsenal fan. I feel exactly what the supporters feel. We've all been waiting for someone — something to break this cycle."
Then, a small grin crept across his face. "And you know what? We finally got it."
"July 9th, 2011," he continued. "A rainy night in London. The club was in chaos after that ra–Mhmn I mean Fabregas' betrayal, and the mood was toxic. And then this young lad from Sporting arrived — Kai. I was in a foul mood that night, but somehow, when I met him... I just felt calm. He has that kind of presence."
(Yo, Mark, We see through your lies lol😂)
Hughes chuckled. "We had a chat — well, more like a debate. Kai's a stubborn kid, but in the best way. He told me straight: 'If you keep wallowing in this mess, you'll only sink deeper.' And you know what? He was right. He convinced me."
The interviewer laughed. "You mentioned before that you and Kai had a heated argument in the car — something to do with Fabregas?"
Hughes blinked. "What? No, no, you've got it wrong! I wouldn't pick a fight with him — and Kai's not that kind of person. Sure, I was angry back then, but that passed quickly." He shrugged with a faint grin. "Honestly, I couldn't be bothered."
"Fair enough," the reporter smiled. "But Mustafi told us you spent an hour cursing Fabregas in that same car."
Martin Hughes stared at him for a second, utterly speechless.
Then his jaw tightened. He muttered under his breath, "You journalists really don't give a man a break, do you?"
...
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