At the post-match press conference following the West Ham victory, Wenger faced the assembled reporters and made no effort to moderate his enthusiasm.
"I'll be honest with you, there was a personal element to signing him. I simply love watching him play. The way he controls the ball, the way he constantly produces something you weren't expecting. I think you feel it too." He paused. "And if I can say something that might sound self-congratulatory, I believe David will do for English football what I once did. He will change it."
A journalist raised a hand. "Only one goal in his debut, though. Is that a concern?"
Wenger looked at the man with the patient expression of someone who has spent thirty years dealing with questions he considers beneath the occasion. "When did the standard become two or three goals per match? He is seventeen years old."
Another reporter tried a different angle. "There were moments where he seemed to hold the ball too long—"
"No," Wenger said simply. "That's not something you'll find in his game. He has extraordinary control, yes, but he uses it in service of the team. He passes when the pass is right. I would invite you to watch the footage again."
The praise was more generous than anything he had said publicly about Fàbregas in the early years, and the reporters in the room registered this without finding it excessive, they had all been at the Emirates, and they had all seen the same things.
Two days later, once the full opening round of Premier League fixtures had been completed, the early table settled into an interesting shape. Manchester City and Arsenal both sat on three points but separated by goal difference, with Leicester and Crystal Palace immediately behind them. Among the established top six, only Chelsea and Spurs had dropped points in the opening weekend.
Liverpool had beaten Stoke one-nil through a Coutinho strike. Klopp's Premier League debut had been everything he would have wanted.
City had taken apart West Brom three-nil, with De Bruyne assisting both of Agüero's goals and looking, from the footage David watched on his laptop on the terrace that evening, like a player who had arrived somewhere he was always supposed to be. Guardiola, interviewed afterwards, spoke about the league title as the primary objective and the Champions League as an additional ambition.
David lay back and looked at the London sky, which was doing its best impression of something worth looking at.
"This year's Premier League is going to be something," he said to no one.
Guardiola. Mourinho. Klopp. Wenger. And somewhere in the lower reaches of the table, Ranieri quietly putting Leicester together in a way that nobody had quite noticed yet. He thought about the foxes briefly and then put the thought away. He had his own title to chase, and the 5000-to-1 miracle that had been part of football history in another timeline was not something he had any intention of allowing to repeat itself.
Life between matches was straightforward and, by the standards of a seventeen-year-old's imagination, fairly uneventful. Training, homework, English study, the occasional walk around a part of London he hadn't yet explored. He had stayed away from the pub near Easton tube station since his last visit, the incident with Hannah had been pleasant enough, but the idea of being recognised and subsequently detained for an extended autograph session was not appealing. He valued his quiet mornings.
The American medical team Wenger had arranged for him had put together a more structured programme than anything he had worked with at Wolfsburg, heavier emphasis on lower body explosive work through resistance training, but balanced with flexibility and mobility sessions. Pilates, of all things, had been incorporated, and David had raised an eyebrow at the first session and then acknowledged, by the end of it, that his core felt different in a way that was difficult to articulate but definitely real.
His system progress had slowed since the Community Shield reward pushed the template fusion to ninety-three percent. Training kept the skill proficiencies moving, the low finish, the driven shot, the overhead kick were all climbing at a pace that made Cazorla occasionally stop what he was doing and stare, but the fusion percentage itself required tournament rewards to shift meaningfully. That was fine. The season was long.
He had also been working specifically on his left foot since his conversation with Wenger, who had predicted that within a few weeks the opposition would begin tailoring their defensive setups around his right-side tendencies. The solution was straightforward: put him on the right, swap him with Sánchez, and the carefully prepared tactical plans would need rethinking. But to make that threat genuine rather than theoretical, he needed to be able to cut inside and shoot on his left with the same conviction he had going right. Šuker's talent and months of deliberate practice were producing results that had begun to alarm Cazorla in a friendly, bewildered way.
One morning in training, David struck a left-footed drive toward the top corner that Čech turned around the post with an outstretched palm.
David shook his hand slightly in mild frustration.
"Don't pull that face," Čech said, walking toward him. "I moved early. I'd read your weight shift and took a step before you struck it, that's the only reason I got there. If you'd given it ten more kilometres per hour, I'd have had no chance." He held David's gaze. "When you're shooting in traffic, stop worrying about placement and give it more pace. A fraction less accuracy is worth a significant reduction in the goalkeeper's reaction time."
"That's genuinely useful," David said.
"I'm telling you as the person who would have to stop it."
The effect David was having on the training ground's general atmosphere was something the senior players discussed quietly among themselves. There was no resentment in it, just a kind of rueful acknowledgement that when a seventeen-year-old is visibly working harder than anyone else in the session and producing things none of them could replicate, the appropriate response was to raise your own standards or accept that you were comfortable being outpaced. Sánchez thrived in this environment. He had always loved competition. The others found their own ways to respond.
Arsenal's bus left North London for South London on the morning of the second Premier League fixture. Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park.
Giroud was reading match reports on his phone with theatrical investment.
"City beat Villa one-nil. Leicester won again. Spurs drew with Stoke." He looked up. "Spurs might be in trouble this year."
"David," he added, turning his phone around, "have you seen what the Spurs supporters are saying about Son? They're comparing him to you and it's not kind to him."
David took the phone and scrolled briefly. Heung-min Son had cost twenty-five million euros, which was a reasonable fee for a player of his profile. The comparison with David was not a comparison that made any sense, it was like complaining that a pianist wasn't as fast as a sprinter, but supporter forums were not generally known for proportionate analysis.
"He's been fine," David said, handing the phone back. "The fee was realistic. He's not me, but that's not his fault."
"David," Giroud said, with a slight change in tone, "you're not looking at the betting odds, are you? On our title chances?"
"I was curious about—"
"No." Giroud sat up straight. "Absolutely not. It's legal here, yes, but professional players are prohibited from betting on football. The FA monitors your accounts and your family members' accounts in real time. I'm serious."
"What if I only bet on my own team to win?"
Giroud stared at him. "Tonali," he said eventually, as if the name were a cautionary tale in itself. "The man was tackling people in the ninety-third minute to protect a bet on his own team. Still a violation. Still suspended. Do not."
The other Arsenal players on the bus had overheard this exchange and joined in the chorus of warning, wearing the collective expression of people who had invested significantly in a particular asset and were determined to protect it from its own decisions.
David held up both hands in surrender.
Selhurst Park came into view as the bus turned off the main road, the old ground compact and slightly crooked-looking, the kind of stadium that has been added to and modified across decades without ever quite achieving a consistent shape. As the squad stepped off the bus, there was noise, a genuine cross-section of it, Arsenal supporters mixed with Crystal Palace supporters mixed with people who seemed to be there for David specifically.
Then someone in the crowd shouted a name he hadn't expected.
"Fan Zhiyi!"
David stopped and thought about it. Fan Zhiyi had played ninety-nine matches for Crystal Palace at the turn of the century, had worn the captain's armband, had been one of the first Chinese players to make a sustained impact in the English game. This ground had a connection to Chinese football history that David had not fully appreciated until this moment.
He was still thinking about it when Bellerín appeared at his shoulder and pointed left.
The Crystal Palace cheerleaders, the only squad in the Premier League, introduced by chairman Steve Parish in 2010, named the Crystals, who had amassed a YouTube following that stretched into the millions, were performing their pre-match routine in red and blue.
Several of them, having noticed the Arsenal squad's arrival, had redirected their attention.
"I cannot explain," Bellerín said, with the philosophical acceptance of someone who has tried and failed to explain it before, "why we don't have this."
"The feminist lobby, apparently," someone else muttered.
"The Crystals have raised substantial charitable funds and they maintain the atmosphere during half-time better than any PA system," Bellerín said, with the authority of a man who had researched the subject. "People object to everything eventually."
David had noticed the cheerleaders noticing him, which produced a mildly uncertain feeling.
Is this a tactical thing? Is Pardew using attractive people as psychological preparation?
Across the forecourt, the squad's captain Bernia, who ran the Crystals with the organised efficiency of someone who takes their work seriously, watched the new Arsenal signing with something more than professional interest.
"He reminds me of Beckham," she said to the woman beside her. "Not the look, exactly. The way he carries himself. I was in the stands the day David scored that free kick in 2003. The afternoon sun, the way he celebrated, I was seventeen and I was completely done for." She smiled. "I wonder what this one is going to do today."
"David," Bellerín said quietly, "has anyone ever told you that you have an effect on people?"
"I look young," David said, pulling a face he considered appropriately severe. "People have an urge to protect me. It's the cheekbones."
"Is that why they gave you the nickname 'Kobe' in Germany?"
Giroud mimed a hard elbow to the ribs, stepped back, and held an imaginary basketball above his head with the committed concentration of someone who had looked up the reference online.
The laughter from the Arsenal squad was genuine and it carried across the forecourt.
At the pre-match press conference, Crystal Palace manager Alan Pardew arrived in a well-cut suit with a tie, carrying the slightly self-conscious composure of a man who considers himself underestimated by the world.
"I've worked with Chinese players before," he said. "When I was at Charlton, even after the relegation was confirmed, I brought in Zheng and he performed well. David Qin is a significantly different proposition, but we've prepared thoroughly. Selhurst Park will have some surprises for them."
He paused, then added, with a smile that had curdled into something less pleasant: "Wenger? As Mourinho said, he's a failure. Ninety million pounds doesn't change the record. Arsenal don't win titles."
In the adjacent room, Wenger received the transcript of these remarks with the expression of someone reading something predictable.
"Crystal Palace haven't taken a point from us in ten years," he said evenly, "and the last time we lost here was 1979. We are in reasonable form, the squad is improving, and the players are confident." He looked at the journalist who had raised Pardew's name. "Alan always likes to present himself as a thoughtful man. He rather consistently finds ways to undermine that impression."
The history between them went back to 2006, when Crystal Palace had beaten Arsenal in an upset and Pardew's celebration had been loud, prolonged, and accompanied by words that Wenger had found offensive enough to push him. They had disliked each other openly ever since, with intermittent fuel added from various sources, including Pardew's public criticism of Wenger for fielding no English players in a Champions League fixture, a complaint that had more political content than sporting logic behind it.
Selhurst Park on a warm August afternoon. The ground full, the noise up, the away end compact and very loud.
Martin Tyler opened the Sky Sports coverage with the measured warmth of someone settling in for something they expect to be good.
"Arsenal's second fixture of the season takes them south of the river to Selhurst Park. Crystal Palace were impressive on the opening day, and Pardew has set up this match as a genuine test for Wenger's side. David Qin, who was outstanding against West Ham, starts again on the left."
Gary Neville was already leaning forward. "The question for me today is how Palace defend him. West Ham tried to double up every time he received the ball, and it worked for about fifteen minutes before he simply went through people. Palace are quick in certain areas, Zaha in particular, so there's a counter-attacking threat if Arsenal lose possession high up the pitch."
"First five minutes," Tyler noted. "Cazorla and David combine on the left, quick give-and-go, David accelerating into the channel, and Zaha comes from behind and fouls him."
The referee showed a yellow card. Five minutes gone.
David adjusted his shin guard, straightened up, and looked across at Wilfried Zaha without particular hostility.
Zaha's story had a strange quality to it. He had arrived at Manchester United as Sir Alex Ferguson's last major signing, carrying the weight of enormous expectation, and had been effectively frozen out by David Moyes without any clear explanation. The tabloids had supplied one, The Sun had run a story about Moyes's daughter that Zaha had denied and that United had inexplicably declined to help him refute, perhaps enjoying the attention it generated. He had been loaned to Crystal Palace and eventually made the move permanent. Whatever confidence Ferguson had seen in him had taken a long time to recover.
He had also, in a previous interview, compared himself favourably to everyone in world football except Messi and Ronaldo, which had gone over about as well as you would expect.
David looked at him with something that was closer to sympathy than anything else. The circumstances hadn't been fair.
"Come on," Zaha said quietly, reading the look and not wanting it.
Play resumed, and Crystal Palace made their intentions clear quickly. Every time David received the ball in space, two players were there before he could turn. It was organised and physical and uncomfortable, and for the first twenty minutes it worked reasonably well.
On the other flank, Sánchez was having a difficult time against a double team of his own, Souaré and McArthur staying tight, forcing him wide, denying him the central positions where he was most dangerous.
Giroud, without service, could do very little on his own. He was excellent at what he was designed for and genuinely limited at what he wasn't, and being isolated against physical centre-backs with no support arriving was firmly in the second category.
The game had settled into a stalemate, and the Crystal Palace supporters were finding their voice, sensing something they hadn't felt in a long time, the possibility that the Arsenal curse might be about to end.
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