The French magazine France Football announced the Best Young XI in Europe for the 2012/2013 season.
It was a recognition of the standout youngsters under the age of 20 who had lit up the campaign. The final eleven read like a who's who of Europe's brightest talents:
Goalkeeper: Marc-André ter Stegen (Borussia Mönchengladbach, Bundesliga).
Defenders: Serge Aurier (Toulouse, Ligue 1), Marquinhos (Roma, Serie A), Samuel Umtiti (Lyon, Ligue 1), Luke Shaw (Southampton, Premier League).
Midfielders: Mateo Kovačić (Inter Milan, Serie A), Paul Pogba (Juventus, Serie A), Kai (Arsenal, Premier League).
Forwards: Raheem Sterling (Liverpool, Premier League), Romelu Lukaku (West Bromwich Albion, Premier League), Julian Draxler (Schalke, Bundesliga).
All nominees were required to travel to Paris before December 5th for the award ceremony.
…
Kai looked over at Arsène Wenger and asked with a hint of uncertainty, "Boss… do I really need to go to this thing?"
Wenger leaned back, hands folded, and gave him a knowing look. "If you've got ambitions of winning the Golden Boy, or even one day the Ballon d'Or, then yes, you should go. These occasions matter. It's not just about football—it's about recognition. You don't want to sour relations with the European press."
Kai cracked a reluctant smile. The awards themselves felt a world away, but Wenger was right. Best not to rub powerful media the wrong way.
Meanwhile, Raheem Sterling was already on his way. He stretched out comfortably in a first-class seat, sunglasses on, grin wide. The Liverpool winger was clearly basking in the glow of being named among Europe's elite youngsters. Before his detour to Paris, Sterling had some business in London, which meant he was boarding a flight from Heathrow.
As he lounged, Sterling glanced at the empty seat beside him and then toward the first-class entrance. He allowed himself a daydream: maybe a young, glamorous woman would be his neighbour for the next few hours.
When a middle-aged man trudged past him toward another row, Sterling muttered inwardly, Go on, keep moving. Don't sit here.
A blonde woman followed, and Sterling sat up straighter, whispering in his mind, Yes… yes… come this way. But she too walked past without a glance.
His small hopes faded—until a tall, broad-shouldered figure entered. Sportswear, simple backpack, sharp black hair, expression cut from stone. Sterling's smile stiffened. He recognised that face instantly.
Kai. Arsenal's enforcer. The same Kai who had clattered into him countless times during Premier League fixtures, leaving him sprawled on the turf and staring up at the sky. To Sterling, Kai wasn't just a rival—he was a walking nightmare.
No way. He's not sitting here. He can't be. Sterling slumped, pulled his cap low, and tried to vanish into the seat. His mind raced: Go left, go anywhere—just don't sit here!
But fate had other plans.
With a heavy thud, Kai dropped his backpack into the overhead bin and slid into the seat beside him.
Sterling's chest tightened. He dared not breathe as Kai settled in, glanced briefly his way, and then turned back toward the aisle. Sunglasses, hoodie, cap—Sterling's disguise was working. For now.
But inside, he was panicking. What am I even doing? Why am I hiding? He's just another player. Should I say hello? No—that looks weak. What if he ignores me? That would be even worse. And didn't I hear somewhere he's got a temper? What if he takes offence?
He clenched his fists. If he tries anything, I'll call the police. Yeah. That's it.
Just as he psyched himself up, Kai suddenly stood. Sterling nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Excuse me," Kai asked a passing flight attendant politely, "is the bathroom open yet?"
"Not until after takeoff, sir," she replied with a gentle smile.
Kai nodded, "Alright, no problem," and sat back down.
Sterling, still hunched in his awkward pose, cursed inwardly. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I'm hiding like a schoolboy. Now if I say anything, it'll look ridiculous.
The hours crawled by. Kai busied himself with match footage on his phone, headphones in, occasionally jotting notes. Sterling, meanwhile, could barely sit still. His legs jittered uncontrollably, and every few minutes he shifted as though sitting on needles.
Eventually, Kai gave him a puzzled look. "You okay? Need a hand with something?"
The disguised winger waved him off quickly, mumbling something inaudible, and turned away again. Kai shook his head, bemused, and went back to his highlights.
Three long hours later, the plane touched down in Paris. The moment the seatbelt light switched off, Sterling sprang up, darting down the aisle like a man possessed. His posture was awkward—hips tilted, legs squeezed together—but he didn't care.
Kai raised an eyebrow, watching him vanish toward the terminal.
Sterling, face flushed and eyes watering, had only one thought hammering through his head: Toilet. Now.
Sterling all but sprinted into the airport bathroom, fumbling with his belt like a man escaping a nightmare. The sheer relief that washed over him as he finally took care of business was indescribable. A grin crept across his face.
At last. It's over.
He shook his head, let out a long sigh, and leaned against the wall for a moment, almost laughing at himself for how ridiculous the last few hours had been. When he finally opened the bathroom door, however, his world stopped.
Standing right there, staring at him with a raised brow, was Kai.
"Sterling?" Kai's voice carried a mix of surprise and mild confusion.
Sterling froze. His entire body stiffened as Kai looked him up and down. That piercing gaze only deepened the colour in Sterling's cheeks until his face was practically glowing red.
For a brief second, there was silence—then Sterling muttered, "You've got the wrong person," spun on his heel, and bolted out of the terminal.
His retreat was nothing short of comical, a blur of baseball cap, sunglasses, and panic. This outfit? Straight in the bin when I get home. No—burn it. Erase all evidence. As far as I'm concerned, I was never on this flight. Never.
Minutes later, Kai stepped out of the arrivals hall, still shaking his head at the bizarre encounter. "What's wrong with that guy?" he muttered under his breath. Then, brushing it aside, he pulled out his phone and made a quick call.
"Wang! I'm here!" Kai's tone was upbeat as the line connected.
A booming laugh came back almost instantly. "Perfect! Stay put—I'll be there in two minutes."
True to his word, a sleek black Lamborghini purred up to the curb moments later. Heads turned immediately—passengers and bystanders alike craning their necks to catch a glimpse. The tinted window slid down to reveal Wang Yi at the wheel, grinning as he waved.
Kai ducked his head, opened the passenger door, and climbed in. The moment he shut it, the Lamborghini roared to life and sped away, leaving a chorus of admiring stares behind.
Inside, Kai finally took a proper look at his friend. Wang Yi's features weren't strikingly handsome, but his thick eyebrows, wide eyes, and easy smile gave him a warmth that made people trust him. His hair was slicked back with wax, gleaming under the city lights.
It looked like the French fashion sense had been instilled in him.
Wang Yi studied Kai in return before chuckling. "You look bigger in person. What are they feeding you in England?"
Kai laughed. "Spend a season in the Premier League as a DM and you'll bulk up whether you want to or not."
"Forget Premier League," Wang Yi grinned. "Just call me Brother Wang, alright? Don't make me sound like some stranger."
Kai nodded. "Alright then, Brother Wang."
That brought a thumbs-up and a wide smile from the driver. "That's better. And listen, the Best Young XI in Europe—honestly, you've done us proud. You've put China on the map."
Kai smiled back, not bothering with false modesty. "Thanks. It's a nice honour."
"So, what's the plan tonight?" Wang Yi asked as they slipped into the Paris traffic. "You hungry? I know a brilliant Chinese place not far from here."
"Sounds good," Kai replied. "It's not often I get proper Chinese food abroad. Been craving it, actually."
"Done," Wang Yi said, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. The Lamborghini surged forward, the engine growling as the city lights reflected off its sleek frame. Together, the two disappeared into the Paris night, laughter filling the car.