Boom.
The Emirates exploded.
Every Arsenal fan leapt to their feet, tossing scarves, caps, and anything they were holding into the air as they hugged anyone within reach. Some were already in tears. They had waited far too long for this.
A full decade without a league title.
But now—
Arsenal were champions again.
No one could take it from them.
Not the Devil.
Not tonight.
Not anymore.
"Ah—Champions!"
"Champions!"
"Beautiful!"
"We're champions!"
On the pitch, Arsenal players swarmed Podolski, screaming and piling on top of him in pure, unfiltered joy.
It had been a brutal season.
Tense. Exhausting. Unforgiving.
This trophy felt like the perfect reward.
Kai was buried somewhere under the heap too, squeezed and crushed by teammates, his heart racing.
Champions.
Premier League champions.
He had imagined moments like this countless times. But the real thing—the noise, the emotion, the disbelief—was overwhelming. Ten years of pressure and heartbreak condensed into this eruption of relief and pride.
More players rushed in. Substitutes, staff members, even Wenger and Pat Rice sprinted in with huge smiles plastered on their faces.
Referee Howard Webb didn't bother stopping them. Stoppage time was over, and everyone knew what was coming next. He let them have this moment—it was a blessing to witness.
Up in the commentary box, Martin Taylor finally returned to his microphone, voice hoarse and trembling slightly.
"Ten years… 3,650 days of waiting. Enough time to wear down even the strongest spirit."
Alan Smith added quietly, "Arsenal have had setbacks, plenty of them. But every time, they stood back up."
Taylor continued, "Season after season, they fell just short. No one quite knew what piece was missing. But they never gave up. They trusted the next generation to grow—and look at them now."
"These are the new Gunners. Young, fearless, determined."
"They've brought the Premier League trophy home again."
"And they've made this stadium believe once more."
Taylor exhaled, voice thick with emotion.
"Enjoy it, everyone. The Premier League belongs to Arsenal. Arsenal are champions again."
The stadium roared as if the walls themselves would break.
It took more than three minutes for the celebrations to settle. When Arsenal lined up again, Chelsea players were already waiting for the restart, heads down. They knew their chance was gone.
At the Arsenal bench, substitutes crouched like sprinters ready to burst onto the pitch.
Bang.
Kai lunged into a tackle, hooked the ball out for a throw, then raised his arms high.
At that exact moment—
The final whistle sounded.
It was over.
The 2013–14 Premier League champions: Arsenal.
Thirty wins, six draws, two losses—ninety-six points. Their best season in years. Their first title since 2004.
Every Arsenal fan in the world would remember this moment for the rest of their lives.
"Let's congratulate Arsenal," Taylor said. "Champions of England once again."
"After ninety fierce minutes, a 3–2 win over Chelsea seals the title," Alan Smith added. "Ten years since their last triumph—what a journey."
"And look at Kai," Taylor continued. "His first Premier League title. In just three years, he's grown from a promising youngster into Arsenal's backbone. Wearing the iconic No.4, and now the team's emotional core."
On the pitch, Wenger grabbed Kai and hugged him tightly.
Kai could feel him trembling.
"Wenger, we're champions," he laughed, patting Wenger's back.
Wenger pulled away, wiping at his eyes.
"Bien joué, mon garçon."
(Well done, my boy.)
Before Kai could reply, someone grabbed him around the waist and lifted him clean off the ground.
"Champions! Champions!"
Pat Rice had hoisted him up like a trophy of his own, face red with excitement.
Kai had no idea where the old coach found that kind of strength.
But Pat's expression said everything—pure, overwhelming pride. His student had helped bring Arsenal back to glory.
"Alright, lads!" someone shouted. "Back to the dressing room—trophy presentation in a bit!"
Eyes lit up around the group.
Players linked arms, laughing all the way down the tunnel as fans showered them with applause.
The trophy stand outside was being prepared; the silverware itself had already been taken away for engraving and ribbons.
Chelsea slipped quietly into their own tunnel, defeated but dignified. They had pushed the race to the very end.
Before disappearing, Mourinho cast a long look at Wenger and Kai embracing.
Then he sighed and walked away.
...
Inside the Arsenal dressing room, absolute chaos awaited.
They had a while before heading out, so the players lounged around, singing, joking, and replaying moments of the match.
Then the door swung open.
In came Usmanov—cigar in his mouth, champagne bottle in his hand.
"Our heroes!" he shouted before immediately spraying the bottle into the air.
He was ecstatic. Arsenal lifting the trophy under his ownership gave him an undeniable sense of pride.
But most players had barely met him before. The room went awkwardly silent as champagne rained over everyone.
After a moment, Usmanov slowed down, realizing how stiff the atmosphere had become.
Then—
"Hey, boss!"
He turned.
Kai stood there with a freshly uncorked bottle, pointing it directly at him.
"Catch this!"
A jet of champagne blasted straight at the owner, soaking him from head to toe.
Usmanov froze—then burst out laughing and sprayed him right back.
"What are you all waiting for?" Kai yelled over the noise. "Celebrate!"
That was all it took.
Players rushed to grab bottles from the staff at the door. Within seconds, champagne was flying everywhere, songs breaking out, voices echoing off the walls.
Kai threw an arm around Usmanov's shoulders, both of them drenched, both roaring with laughter.
The entire dressing room dissolved into joyful chaos—exactly the way champions should celebrate.
...
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