After the chaos finally settled, everyone remained standing in the locker room, their boots squelching against the champagne-soaked floor.
Usmanov stood in the centre, hair slightly out of place, suit drenched, but wearing the broadest smile anyone had seen from him.
"This is a night of honour—an incredible, uplifting moment—and it's all because of you."
He pointed around the room, calling out names one by one.
"Vermaelen! Kai! Cazorla! Podolski!"
He went down the entire list, including every substitute. Even the players who rarely made the matchday squad were called out clearly. It was obvious he'd done his homework.
"For ninety minutes, you poured everything you had into this match. I watched from the stands, and honestly, I've never felt prouder. I'm leading a club filled with young men who play with real passion! Against Madrid, you never backed down. And tonight, here at our home, you beat Chelsea to win the Premier League!"
"There's no better ending to a season, and it's entirely down to your effort—every single one of you."
He paused, then sighed dramatically.
"I'm a businessman, so I only know one way to show gratitude."
With a snap of his fingers, his secretary signaled to a person carrying in several white envelopes stacked neatly behind him.
"Your Premier League bonus—two hundred thousand pounds each. I'm sorry, I couldn't think of a better gift!"
Chamberlain burst out laughing.
"Boss, that's the best gift any of us could ask for!"
The room erupted in warm laughter.
Money always speaks.
Usmanov chuckled. "I'm glad you think so. And let me say this—I won't mistreat anyone who gives their all for this club. If you keep performing, neither your wages nor your bonuses will be held back."
He took a breath.
"Alright. Thank you for everything tonight. Thank you for giving Arsenal—and our fans—a night like no other."
"You should get showered and ready. The trophy presentation's coming."
But nobody moved. Their eyes were fixed on the envelopes.
Usmanov quickly waved them forward, laughing.
"Go on! It's yours!"
The Arsenal players surged ahead, grabbed their envelopes, tucked them into their lockers, and headed for the showers.
Meanwhile, the stage outside was already set.
At the entrance of the tunnel, a giant red-and-white arch had been erected, with the word CHAMPIONS gleaming across it. A red carpet stretched toward a wide presentation platform decorated with the FA crest and Arsenal's badge.
Not far from the stage sat the Premier League trophy itself, shining under the floodlights. Arsenal was already engraved, and fresh red-and-white ribbons were tied to its handles.
It was the fourth Premier League title in Arsenal's history, and their fourteenth top-flight English championship.
Usmanov, Arsène Wenger, and the directors stepped out first. FA Chairman Greg Dyke was already waiting.
But the fans didn't care about the officials. All eyes were fixed on the tunnel.
A moment later, Martin Taylor's voice echoed throughout the stadium.
"After thirty-eight rounds of football, the 2013–2014 Premier League season has reached its end—and this year's champions are…"
He held the pause deliberately.
Arsenal supporters played along, shouting at the top of their lungs:
"ARSENAL!"
Martin Taylor laughed over the microphone.
"That's right! Arsenal are champions of England! And now, let's welcome tonight's heroes!"
"Our captain—Thomas Vermaelen!"
A thunderous roar shook the Emirates as Vermaelen stepped out, waving as he walked up the carpet.
"And next," Martin Taylor continued, drawing out his words again, "our vice-captain…"
The crowd was already bracing for it.
"Kai!"
He pronounced it in clear, standard Chinese, and the stadium exploded.
Kai! Kai! Kai!
The chants echoed like rolling thunder.
Kai stepped into view, smiling calmly, intending to head straight for the stage.
But the fans weren't letting him off that easily.
"Kai! One more time!"
It started with one voice.
Then it spread.
"One more time!"
"One more time!"
"One more time!"
They wanted his signature three-punch celebration—one last show of fire before the trophy lift.
Kai laughed lightly, shook his head, then lifted his left hand high.
Instantly, the entire stadium went silent.
As Kai brought his raised right fist back, a rolling murmur swept across the stadium.
Whoooosh—————
In an instant, Kai unleashed three rapid punches, each one echoed by a deafening, collective roar from the stands.
"ARSENAL!!"
"ARSENAL!!"
"ARSENAAAALLL!!!"
James, a non-English travelling fan, felt the hair on his arms stand up. Only by being there—right in the middle of it—could you understand just how electrifying that celebration really was.
He couldn't help muttering, half-joking, half-awestruck:
"I swear, this is so addictive."
Fans watching from home were already buzzing online:
@NorthBankNerves:
"My voice just went hoarse. This is insane!"
@KaiHive:
"Nahhh, Kai HAS to do it once again! I just got back from the washroom, I'm begging!😢😭"
@BeenWaitingSince2004:
"I've been waiting ages to shout along, man. I needed this."
@MatchdayMadness:
"This is stupidly lit, I can't lie."
@ShyGooner:
"But what if nobody shouts at the same time, though? Imagine the awkwardness 😭"
@EmiratesUltra:
"At the Emirates? Bro, the fans will peel your jaw open for you—trust me, you'll shout."
After finishing the celebration, Kai walked over and stood next to Vermaelen.
One by one, the rest of the players emerged from the tunnel.
Soon, they were all lined up neatly in front of the presentation platform.
FA Chairman Greg Dyke stepped forward and began awarding the Premier League gold medals.
He greeted each Arsenal player with a warm smile and a few words of encouragement.
When the last medal was hung, the squad stepped up onto the Premier League podium.
It wasn't especially tall—certainly nothing like an Olympic podium—but standing there still carried a deep sense of pride.
"Come on! Come on!"
"Captain, go lift it!"
"Hurry up, skip!"
The players egged Vermaelen on enthusiastically.
Kai, meanwhile, had quietly eased himself into the centre of the formation—no one objected. No one ever did.
But after a moment, he hesitated, stepped off to the side of the stage, and spoke briefly with a staff member.
The staff member jogged away and returned with a folded jersey.
Kai took it, returned to his spot, squatted down, and carefully unfolded it.
Arsenal's No. 9 kit.
The name on the back: Suarez.
...
Thousands of miles away in South America, recuperating for the World Cup, Suarez was watching the ceremony on television. He'd expected to feel only a sting of regret—being so far away on a night like this.
But when he saw Kai lift his jersey into view, something warm spread through him.
Even now… even in this moment of glory… Kai had remembered him.
A small gesture—but it hit Suarez straight in the chest.
Thank you, Kai.
...
Vermaelen waited for the final cue from Greg Dyke, hands already trembling with excitement.
The Premier League trophy was placed into his palms.
For a heartbeat, the Emirates held its breath.
Then—
He raised it.
High.
The stadium erupted like a volcano.
A wall of red-and-white fire shot skyward from the pyrotechnic rigs. Glitter cannons along the roof exploded, spraying thousands of shimmering red and white flakes over the stage. The air itself looked painted, swirling with colour, light, and noise.
"YEAAAHHHHHHHHH!"
Players jumped, screamed, pointed at their captain, clapped above their heads—raw, unfiltered joy echoing under the North London night.
Champions. Champions of England.
Vermaelen laughed through the noise, shaking the trophy once more above his head before handing it to the man who had led them all.
Arsène Wenger stepped forward.
The stadium roared even louder, a sound that felt like gratitude given form.
He lifted the trophy with both hands—calm, proud, almost gentle—and the Emirates responded with a thunder that rolled for seconds on end. For a moment, every player, every coach, every fan watched him. The professor who had carried the club through storms was finally raising the crown again.
When Wenger lowered it, he gave it a small kiss, then handed it to the next player.
One by one, the Arsenal squad took their turns.
Cazorla spun with it, laughing with that bright smile that always lit up his face.
Podolski held it with one hand and flexed for the cameras, earning a wave of laughter from the front row.
Koscielny pressed the trophy to his forehead, closed his eyes, and whispered something private—probably a prayer of thanks.
Szczesny blew kisses to the crowd before raising it like a heavyweight champion.
Even the youngest players—those who rarely saw the pitch—held it proudly, shoulders back, eyes shining. For tonight, they were champions too.
When the last teammate had finished their moment, Kai stepped forward.
The crowd sensed it instantly.
A rumble rolled across the stadium.
"KAI! KAI! KAI!"
Kai took the trophy with both hands, grinning.
Then he slipped his fingers through the handles—
—and began swaying with the trophy like a steering wheel in hand, reminiscent of Drogba's Champions League trophy celebration.
Talk about salt to injury for Chelsea fans.
The fans lost their minds.
He jogged down the steps of the podium, trophy-wheel in hand, steering left, then right, weaving across the touchline like a driver celebrating pole position. Every turn he made drew a fresh wave of cheers.
Kids in the first few rows were jumping in pure disbelief.
Kai took the lap slowly, making sure every stand got the show. When he approached the corner flag near the North Bank, he stopped.
He set the trophy down gently between his legs on the grass, facing the fans.
[Image]
Then he tapped his chest.
"Kai!"
The entire stand shouted it back.
"KAI!"
He pointed at himself again, louder this time.
"Kai!"
The reply came like thunder.
"KAI!!!"
He laughed, shaking his head, overwhelmed but loving every second.
For a few moments, he just sat there—hands on grass, chest rising and falling, glitter stuck to his hair—soaking in a celebration that felt almost unreal.
The fans kept chanting his name long after he fell quiet.
It wasn't just the victory.
It wasn't just the trophy.
It was him—the heart, the fire, the madness of the night.
And as the chant rose again, rolling across the Emirates like a tide
"KAI! KAI! KAI!"
He looked out at the sea of supporters and let the moment wash over him before muttering.
"Arsenal, Champions of England, huh? I like that sound."
...
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