A week had passed since the end of the Champions League.
Arsenal had already shaken off the sting of their semi-final exit.
For the players, it wasn't a crushing blow. They hadn't entered the tournament expecting to win it all anyway, and reaching the semi-finals was, in itself, a solid achievement.
The experience, however, had been invaluable—something that would serve them well next season.
But right now, their focus had shifted.
The Premier League title race was entering its final stretch.
Arsenal were sitting top of the table with 28 wins, 6 losses, and 2 draws—86 points from 36 matches. Chelsea were right behind them, just one point adrift.
Coincidentally, Chelsea had also been knocked out of the Champions League semi-finals by Atlético Madrid, which meant both English clubs were now free to put everything into the domestic race.
And that changed everything.
With both sides out of Europe, the title fight was now a straight duel between Arsenal and Chelsea.
Liverpool, meanwhile, had slipped after losing 1–0 to Chelsea in the fifth round, effectively falling out of the title picture unless something dramatic happened.
Most people didn't expect either Arsenal or Chelsea to drop points before the final day—setting up what could be one of the most thrilling title deciders in years: Arsenal vs Chelsea at the Emirates, Round 38.
Elsewhere, the relegation battle was just as fierce. Norwich, Fulham, and Cardiff City were fighting for survival, though Norwich's situation looked hopeless. A run of defeats had led to chaos within the club—rumors of dressing room unrest were everywhere. Fulham and Cardiff still had a faint chance, but they'd need a miracle.
That was the Premier League in a nutshell—chaotic, unpredictable, and dramatic till the end.
On May 4th, Arsenal arrived in West Bromwich, a quiet town in central England, for their next league match.
West Bromwich Albion sat comfortably in 14th with 36 points—safe from relegation and, frankly, playing without much pressure.
For Arsenal, though, every game was a must-win.
From the opening whistle, they played like it. Within half an hour, they were already 2–0 up.
Walcott scored twice, both goals assisted by Cazorla and Kai, respectively.
But even with a two-goal cushion, Arsenal didn't take their foot off the pedal. They pressed, passed, and attacked like a team possessed.
On Sky Sports, Martin Taylor couldn't help but grin.
"Arsenal aren't easing off one bit—they're still piling forward! Looks like they're taking out their Champions League frustrations here tonight."
Beside him, Alan Smith chuckled. "You can tell they've come to make a statement. And I have to say—Kai's running the show in midfield. The way he's dictating the tempo, it's something else."
Taylor laughed softly. "He's been brilliant, hasn't he? You rarely see a holding midfielder control a game quite like this."
On the pitch, Cazorla slid a pass into Kai's feet.
Kai took a glance ahead—Dorrans and Mulumbu were charging in to press. Instead of passing, he turned with the ball, shielding it with his body.
"Oh, that's lovely! What did we just see there?" Taylor exclaimed.
Alan burst out laughing. "He's gone for the Marseille turn! Bit less flair, a bit more muscle—but it worked! You could call that a power doughnut, Martin."
Mulumbu tried to shoulder him off the ball, but Kai was immovable—one sharp turn, a nudge of his shoulder, and Mulumbu was sent stumbling.
Kai powered through the space, then, with the outside of his boot, whipped a low, curving trivela between the center-back and full-back.
"There it is again—Kai's trademark!" Taylor shouted. "The trivela!"
Alan grinned. "It's become his signature move, hasn't it? The bend, the precision—it's gorgeous to watch."
Walcott raced onto the ball, and as the goalkeeper rushed out, he dinked it coolly over his head.
3–0.
Game over.
The Hawthorns fell silent.
West Brom fans sat still, frustrated and disheartened. Their team had been completely outplayed from start to finish.
Even the West Brom fans, who had already given up hope, found their team's performance unbearable.
"They're just lying down out there—fooking wankers!" one fan shouted, as boos and jeers filled the stands.
"Grow a f**king backbone!"
Seeing the Arsenal players celebrating again only added fuel to their anger.
From the touchline, Arsène Wenger and Pat Rice stood side by side, watching the team dominate. Both of them had their eyes fixed on Kai—each sharing the same look of satisfaction.
"I told you," Pat said, his voice trembling slightly with excitement, "he's mastered it."
Wenger nodded, a faint smile on his face. "I was still a bit unsure after the Bernabéu match," he admitted. "But now it's clear—Kai's vision and control are right where we need them."
He turned to Pat with a knowing look. "You've done brilliant work with him, my friend."
Wenger meant every word. Kai's rise had Pat's fingerprints all over it.
Pat chuckled softly. "I should be the one thanking you," he said. "If you hadn't insisted I take him under my wing, I'd be regretting it for the rest of my life."
He paused for a moment, then said with quiet pride, "He's my best work, Arsène. The perfect midfielder. And maybe… my last gift to this club."
Wenger hesitated, catching the hint of emotion behind those words. He noticed how Pat's chest rose and fell sharply, as if the moment meant more to him than he was willing to admit. But Wenger didn't pry. He simply turned back to the pitch, where Arsenal continued to dominate.
After the first goal, the game had tilted entirely in Arsenal's favor.
West Brom couldn't live with Kai. He dictated the rhythm of the game, pulling strings from deep, switching play, tackling, pressing, intercepting—it was all effortless.
Cazorla and Kai complemented each other perfectly, but they were very different kinds of players.
Cazorla's magic came from agility and flair. Kai's came from power, balance, and precision.
Trying to take the ball off Kai was like running into a wall—most players didn't even try anymore.
By the 75th minute, the result was beyond doubt. Wenger made his move.
Cazorla, Kai, and Walcott were all substituted.
For Arsenal, the job was done. There was no point risking fatigue or injury with the title race on the line.
As Arteta trotted onto the pitch, he and Kai exchanged a quick high-five.
Arteta hadn't played much since Kai's rise to prominence. Once the heartbeat of Arsenal's midfield, he'd gracefully accepted his new role—as Kai's backup and mentor figure.
"That was a beauty, you know," Arteta said with a grin.
Kai smiled, breathing heavily. "All yours now. Just make sure they don't sneak one back."
Arteta chuckled. "Don't worry. I'm not built for battles anymore—but I can keep things tidy."
Kai laughed and handed him the armband before heading to the bench. He wiped the sweat from his face with a towel, took a long breath, and sank into his seat.
From there, he watched as Arsenal calmly saw out the match. West Brom had no answers, no spark left in them. The game had ended the moment they stopped believing.
Pass by pass, Arsenal ran down the clock—professional, efficient, ruthless.
When the referee finally blew for full time, the traveling Arsenal fans erupted.
Martin Taylor's voice came alive on Sky Sports:
"That's it! Full time at The Hawthorns—and the title race is still alive! Arsenal have done their job, a convincing 3–0 win here against West Bromwich Albion!"
Alan Smith added, "And Chelsea have just beaten Norwich 1–0. That means the top two stay neck and neck. What a finale we've got ahead of us next week."
Taylor nodded. "Exactly—Arsenal first with 89 points, Chelsea right behind on 88. It's all going to come down to that last game of the season… Arsenal versus Chelsea, at the Emirates. You couldn't have scripted it better."
...
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