Le Kai's display in central midfield lingered long after the final whistle. It did more than impress; it unsettled the opposition's entire tactical approach.
He and Santi Cazorla offered two distinct profiles in the same role. With Le Kai, Arsenal gained control, range, and structure. With Cazorla, the tempo shifted toward fluidity and close control.
The constant switch between the two made it difficult for opponents to prepare with any certainty. Each setup demanded a different response, and that uncertainty became a weapon in itself.
Some saw it as deliberate misdirection from Arsène Wenger, a calculated way to blur Arsenal's true identity. Whether intentional or not, it had its effect. For Chelsea F.C. and José Mourinho, it created a mix of concern and irritation.
At Chelsea's training ground, Mourinho's mood was already sour. Another dispute with the club's hierarchy had just ended behind closed doors. It was not an isolated incident. He had never been a manager who tolerated interference, and recent weeks had seen increasing pressure from above, with decisions questioned and authority challenged.
To Mourinho, it felt like noise from people who did not understand the game. That frustration stayed with him as he walked back to his office, his expression warning others to keep their distance.
Bang
The door shut hard behind him.
He sat down, closed his eyes, and steadied his breathing. After a moment, he turned to his computer and began reviewing footage from the latest round of matches. This routine grounded him.
Football, in its pure form, was always clearer on the screen. Teams evolved quickly, and keeping up required constant observation. For Mourinho, preparation began with watching, analyzing, and adjusting.
Time passed without notice. Dusk settled outside while the glow of the screen held his attention. Only when the video ended did he lean back and exhale, some of the tension easing.
Then a notification appeared.
Arsenal's Passing Machine - Kai.
Mourinho paused.
The name alone was enough.
His interest in Le Kai had never been a secret. He had tried more than once to bring him in, and each attempt had gone nowhere. Arsenal had no intention of letting him go, and the player himself had shown no interest in leaving. Over time, Mourinho had moved on in practice, but not in thought. There was still a sense of something missed.
In his system, Le Kai had always been a perfect fit.
"A passing machine?"
He clicked.
The footage began, and Mourinho watched with his chin resting on his hand. At first, it was a simple observation. Then something felt off.
His eyes narrowed.
Then widened.
Central midfield?
He leaned closer to the screen, replaying sequences in his mind as much as on the video.
"He's really playing there?"
The realization hit fully, and with it came a surge of anger.
"Bloody Arsenal!"
To him, it made no sense. A dominant defensive midfielder repositioned to emphasize distribution. In his view, it dulled what made the player special. Defensive instinct, positioning, control of transitions, those were the foundations. Everything else should build on that, not replace it.
He saw it as a misuse of talent, a decision that traded balance for flair.
Frustration gave way to a familiar feeling of helplessness. It was not his player, not his team, not his decision.
Still, the irritation needed an outlet.
He opened Twitter and began typing.
The next morning, when Le Kai arrived at the training ground, something felt off. Small groups had formed across the pitch, conversations kept low, heads close together.
He walked over, curious.
"What's going on?"
The reaction was immediate. A few players flinched before realizing who it was. Then came the looks, half-amused, half awkward.
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain grinned. "Big news. Someone wants to be our head coach."
Le Kai frowned. "Who?"
"Mourinho."
That stopped him.
"What's he done now?"
Tomáš Rosický laughed. "You haven't seen it? It's everywhere. Check his Twitter."
Le Kai pulled out his phone and scrolled.
"Nothing here."
The latest post was weeks old.
"He deleted it," Chamberlain said, already pulling up his gallery. "Good thing I didn't."
Le Kai gave him a look before taking the phone.
He read.
At first, it sounded like criticism. Strong, but not unusual.
Then he reached the last line.
"I don't know which pig-headed person decided to play Kai in central midfield. It limits his defensive ability and wastes a top defensive midfielder. Constant changes like this will pull him away from his natural role."
Le Kai's expression barely shifted.
Then he read the final line.
"@Arsène Wenger. Can you do your job? If not, I will."
This time, even he paused.
"F**k!"
Le Kai couldn't hold it in. The line was explosive, the kind that didn't just stir headlines but shook the entire league.
It sounded like a direct challenge.
Was José Mourinho positioning himself to take over Arsenal? Even thinking it felt absurd, yet the wording left room for exactly that interpretation. Whether he meant it or not, the impact had already spread. Deleting the post changed nothing.
. .
Dressing Room
The door creaked open.
Every head turned as Arsène Wenger stepped in.
Silence followed.
Wenger's expression gave nothing away. He scanned the room, checked his watch, then spoke in a steady tone. "Everyone, be in the tactics room shortly."
No visible anger.
That made it worse.
The players nodded quickly.
Le Kai studied Wenger for a moment, searching for a crack, a sign. There was nothing on the surface.
For a second, it almost seemed like he had not been affected.
Then—
Bang
The door slammed shut.
The entire room flinched.
That answered it.
No one spoke, but the message was clear. The calm exterior was holding something back, and it did not take much imagination to guess what.
The tension lingered through the rest of the day. Training intensity rose without anyone being told. Every pass was sharper, every run more deliberate. No one wanted to be the spark.
By evening, the storm had not broken, but it had not faded either.
Back home, Le Kai barely had time to settle before his agent arrived.
Jonathan Barnett did not waste time. He grabbed a bottle of cold water and got straight to it.
"You've heard about Mourinho?"
Le Kai nodded. "I've seen it."
Barnett took a breath. "He's likely leaving Chelsea F.C.."
That caught Le Kai off guard.
"Why? They're doing fine. This alone can't push things that far."
Barnett shook his head. "It's deeper than that. His relationship with the board has broken down. And inside the squad, things aren't stable either. There's friction with Cesc Fàbregas, and Eden Hazard is losing trust. The dressing room is unstable."
He made a small explosion gesture with his hand.
"Everything's ready to go. Mourinho's just the trigger."
Le Kai exhaled. "And where do I come in?"
Barnett gave him a look. "You're already in it."
He leaned forward slightly.
Manchester United have contacted him. They want him. Talks are positive. But he has a condition. He wants them to push for you."
Le Kai blinked.
"So now United are calling me because of him."
It almost felt inevitable at this point.
Mourinho's admiration had never been subtle. At first, it felt like recognition. Then it became pressure. Offers, inquiries, indirect contact, it kept coming. Over time, it stopped feeling flattering.
Now it was following him again.
"I'm not leaving," Le Kai said, firm.
Barnett nodded. "That's what I told them."
He hesitated for a moment.
"But they still want to meet you."
Le Kai frowned. "And you agreed?"
Barnett looked slightly uncomfortable. "Alex Ferguson called me."
"He wants a meeting."
Le Kai stared at him.
"Sir Alex wants to see me?"
There was no easy way to refuse that.
. . .
Inside the office, Wenger sat still, listening.
"Sir Alex Ferguson wants to meet you?"
Le Kai confirmed it calmly.
A faint reflection flashed across Wenger's glasses. His face remained composed, but the tension underneath was unmistakable.
"I understand," he said.
That was all.
Le Kai nodded and stepped out.
The door closed softly behind him.
For a few seconds, Wenger did not move.
Then he reached for his phone and dialed.
The call connected.
This time, there was no restraint.
"F**k off!"
. . .
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