That evening, Vermaelen had gone all out — renting a spacious villa in North London for a proper team celebration.
It wasn't a title party, not yet — just three rounds into the season — but the performances had been sharp, the mood buoyant. And for that, the skipper decided the lads deserved a treat.
Out in the garden, a long oak table stretched across the lawn, big enough to seat over twenty players and staff. There were steaming platters of peri-peri grilled chicken breast, baked salmon fillets with lemon and herbs, roasted sweet potatoes, quinoa salad with chickpeas and roasted vegetables, and wholegrain pasta with a light tomato-basil sauce.
A colourful spread of fresh fruit bowls and mixed nuts catered to the snackers, while platters of hummus and whole-wheat pita sat within easy reach. Large jugs of iced water and fresh orange juice lined the table, alongside recovery smoothies for those on post-match nutrition plans. In the corner, a barbecue grill hissed as lean turkey skewers and vegetable kebabs sizzled. A cooler of isotonic sports drinks sat beside the table.
Not far from the food, a TV was set up and tuned to the evening's big event — the Champions League group stage draw.
Kai sat beside Vermaelen, dressed for comfort in a plain white tee, black sweatpants, and a pair of battered slippers. One leg rested lazily across the other, his posture relaxed, almost catlike. Every so often, he'd fork a piece of grilled chicken into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes half on the TV and half on the lively banter circling the table.
The winning streak had put him in high spirits. Sure, they hadn't faced a powerhouse yet — but a win was still a win. And wins deserved to be celebrated.
Next to him, Luis Suárez was sipping from a guampa filled with a murky yellow-brown liquid. The bombilla bobbed between his teeth as he drank with a contented sigh.
"What's that?" Kai asked, leaning over, his curiosity piqued.
Suárez grinned. "This is yerba mate — tea from Uruguay. You want a go?"
Kai hesitated, then nodded slightly. "Alright, let me try a sip."
He took the guampa carefully, drawing a tentative mouthful through the straw. The taste hit immediately — bitter, earthy, with a tang he couldn't place. His eyebrows arched as he swallowed.
"Huh… different," Kai admitted. "Not bad, though. I can see why you like it — feels strong."
Suárez's grin widened. "Told you. Grows on you after a while."
Kai chuckled. "When I head back to China, I'll bring you some proper chai. Then you can decide what real tea tastes like."
Suárez's eyes lit up. "Deal. Here — you can have this one."
Kai laughed and shook his head. "One sip is enough for now. I'll stick to the barbecue."
From further down the table, Bacary Sagna piped up. "Right, who do you reckon we'll get in the Champions League?"
Immediately, the conversation caught fire. Arsenal, thanks to consistent domestic and European performances, were in Pot 1 — meaning no Manchester United, Real Madrid, Bayern, Benfica, Chelsea, Porto, or Barcelona in the group stage. But Pot 2 was a minefield.
"I'll take Shakhtar Donetsk, Zenit, and Steaua Bucharest, thank you very much," someone joked, earning laughs all around.
Then Flamini had his turn. "Don't care who else — as long as it's not Atlético Madrid, Dortmund, and Napoli."
"Oi, why's Dortmund in Pot 3 anyway?" Chamberlain asked.
"Points system," someone answered. "Doesn't matter if they were finalists last year — not enough coefficient points."
"Whoever gets Dortmund," Pat Rice muttered from the corner, "gets a group of death."
"And Atlético Madrid's a nightmare this season," another added.
As the debate rolled on, the TV feed shifted to the live draw. Conversations faded. All eyes were on the screen.
One by one, the groups filled in — and then it came.
Olympique de Marseille
Group F: Arsenal, Marseille, Borussia Dortmund, Napoli.
"This is a joke!" Chamberlain groaned, clutching his head.
Four strong teams from four different leagues — every single one capable of advancing. The so-called group of death had a new home.
The smell of the barbecue suddenly seemed less inviting, except for Kai, who was still happily chewing on a turkey skewer.
"Can you even eat right now?" Chamberlain asked him.
"Why not?" Kai said with a shrug. "It's just a draw. We're Arsenal. We play to win. Marseille, Dortmund, Napoli — bring them on. It's the others who should be worried, not us."
His calm confidence seemed to spread. Cazorla thumped the table. "He's right! Eat up, mis hermanos — you'll need the strength to put them to the sword!"
Laughter followed, and the plates started filling again. But beneath the surface, Kai knew this group would be no walkover. Qualification was possible — likely, even — but it would be a battle.