I Have Arrived (2)
"Tsk, tsk. Your junior was out here training since early morning, while you were busy sleeping in."
"...Sleeping in? Who?"
"Wipe the sleep from your eyes before you speak."
At Dennis Bergkamp's tongue-clicking remark right before breakfast, the twenty-one-year-old Robin van Persie scowled. Getting nagged by this old man first thing in the morning was incredibly annoying.
If he weren't my senior on the national team, I'd have lost my temper.
If it were anyone else, Van Persie would have snapped back in a heartbeat. But Bergkamp was the only other Dutchman at the club. He had been a mentor, helping him adjust to the Premier League ever since he arrived. No matter how hot-tempered Van Persie was with the rest of the squad, he couldn't bring himself to lash out at Bergkamp.
Still, the morning lecture rankled. Van Persie decided to redirect his irritation toward the "junior" who had prompted Bergkamp's comparison in the first place.
"Who are you talking about?"
"Who else? That kid over there."
Following Bergkamp's nod, Van Persie looked over to where the academy graduates were gathered, eating breakfast together.
He recognized a few of them.
There was Bukayo Saka, the highly-rated prospect who had filled in for him during the second half of last season when he was injured. And Ainsley Maitland-Niles, who had been relegated to the reserves almost immediately after Van Persie's transfer.
And one of those losers is supposed to be the one?
To Van Persie, who had debuted for the prestigious Dutch club Feyenoord at sixteen and quickly secured a starting spot, the kids gathered over there were just benchwarmers who hadn't even established themselves yet.
And one of those benchwarmers had been training since dawn? So what?
Van Persie scoffed, turning back to Bergkamp.
"All of them were out there training this morning?"
"No, just that one over there."
This time, Bergkamp pointed. He was gesturing toward a blond kid whose features made it hard to tell if he was Asian or Western. Van Persie had only seen him for a couple of days, but the face was already familiar.
Hardly surprising, given that the kid had been the talk of the Arsenal first team.
In just two days, he had embarrassed Thierry Henry, teased Emiliano Martínez, and infuriated Theo Walcott. It was a trifecta of trouble that even Van Persie, the club's resident rebel, had never managed to pull off.
What was his name again? Luka?
He couldn't recall the last name, but the first name was definitely Luka. More importantly, he was rumored to play as both a winger and a center-forward—making him a direct rival for Van Persie's position.
If anyone heard Van Persie's thoughts, they might wonder how a sixteen-year-old who had just signed a contract could compete with someone who had scored twelve goals and provided two assists in thirty-one appearances (thirteen starts) last season. But Van Persie believed that the moment you stepped into the professional world, everyone was a rival. His gaze sharpened.
I thought he was just a socially inept brat, but for this old man to praise him like this... Wait, he hasn't even seen the kid kick a ball yet.
Since they hadn't trained together yet, Luka's actual skills remained a mystery.
It was hard to tell if Bergkamp was just trying to provoke him or if he had genuinely seen something special in the boy.
One thing was certain: despite the gossip circulating among the players, the notoriously discerning Bergkamp held the kid in high regard. And in this team, staying on Bergkamp's good side meant getting fed plenty of shooting opportunities.
Van Persie couldn't help but worry that Bergkamp might start favoring the kid with his passes.
Van Persie's goal for the season was to secure a starting spot upfront ahead of Walcott or Fredrik Ljungberg. Displacing Henry was practically impossible, but Van Persie was confident. Had it not been for his injuries, he would have easily surpassed Walcott and Ljungberg's goal tallies with far less playing time.
To achieve that, he needed to link up well with Bergkamp during this pre-season camp and show what he could do.
It looked like he would have to work a little harder to keep Bergkamp's favor during this camp.
Well, the kid actually has to be good to make use of those passes anyway.
Just how good was this kid Bergkamp was keeping an eye on?
"Haha, Dennis. Nagging Robin again?"
"Nagging? No, I'm just giving him some friendly advice."
"That's the definition of nagging, Dennis. Kids these days don't appreciate that sort of thing."
While Van Persie was observing Luka, Kolo Touré sat down next to them with his breakfast tray. Unlike Bergkamp, who looked out for Van Persie because they shared a nationality, Touré was just naturally supportive despite their different backgrounds. Normally, Van Persie would have sided with Touré to take a playful jab at Bergkamp, but right now, his focus was entirely on studying Luka.
"...Oh, look at that. He's so quiet, he must be completely cowed. Hey, Robin. Who are you staring at?"
"Oh... just that kid over there."
"Him? Ah, Tachibana? Why? You interested in him too?"
"Not really."
"Well, if you're close to him, you might want to warn him. Word is Patrice has his eye on him."
"Oh, boy..."
Even as focused as he was on Luka, Van Persie couldn't help but let out a soft groan at the mention of "Patrice."
"Patrice" was the nickname of Arsenal's captain, Patrice Vieira.
And Vieira was famous for his fiery temper—something Van Persie knew all too well. Remembering how Vieira had grabbed him by the collar the first time he caused trouble after transferring to Arsenal still made him break out in a cold sweat.
There were even wild rumors that Vieira had once slapped a teammate with his own dick. No matter how cocky Van Persie was, Vieira genuinely terrified him.
And now, that very same Vieira was gunning for the kid...
It wasn't surprising. Vieira was best friends with Henry, his international teammate.
Furthermore, Vieira absolutely detested anyone disrupting team discipline just because they had a bit of talent. He was so strict that he had once tried to grab Cesc Fàbregas—the core of the team and a player rumored to be the manager's favorite—by the collar just for acting cocky.
...So I don't even need to worry about him?
No matter how highly Bergkamp thought of him, if the captain blacklisted you, your career at Arsenal was effectively over—unless you possessed the generational talent of Fàbregas.
Van Persie felt a strange mix of emotions, realizing that the rival he had briefly worried about might be neutralized so easily.
But it didn't take long for those mixed feelings to turn into pure resentment.
"Today, we'll start with a light fitness test... Hm? Patrice, what is it?"
"Coach. Since it's the first day, shouldn't we make the fitness check a bit more rigorous?"
"Well, we do have a schedule to keep..."
"The season is just starting, so we need to see how well everyone prepared during the break. Let's do a Shuttle Run."
At Vieira's suggestion, the coach glanced at Arsène Wenger. Wenger gave a slight nod. Had the manager and the captain already reached an understanding?
"Then we'll set the distance to sixty meters..."
"Come on, sixty meters is nothing for professional footballers. It's the first day; we should run the full length of the pitch—one hundred and five meters."
The players' faces turned pale at Vieira's words. The veterans managed awkward smiles, but the younger players, anticipating the nightmare to come, couldn't even muster that.
"Hey. Everyone gather round."
As soon as the coaches stepped away for a moment, Vieira called over the squad of thirty-plus players.
"I trust you all kept in shape during the off-season. Anyone who runs slower than me today is dead. Especially you young punks. You think just because you made the pre-season squad, you can slack off and act cocky? I'm watching you."
As he finished his warning, Vieira's eyes locked onto Luka.
Damn it, it's all because of that bastard!
Today was supposed to be a light recovery session, but because that brat had to act up, they were doing this!
Van Persie wanted nothing more than to grab Luka by the collar and shake him, but under Vieira's fierce glare, he could only nod along silently.
He wasn't the only one thinking this. The younger players, who were now facing collective punishment because of Luka, glared at him with daggers in their eyes.
Yet, through it all, Luka remained completely unfazed.
"You scraped your knee. Are you going to be okay?"
"Haha, it's just a scratch. But what about you? Are you going to be okay?"
"Me? It's just a Shuttle Run. Why wouldn't I be okay?"
"You don't get it. This isn't a normal Shuttle Run; it's a one-hundred-and-five-meter lap. Since it's the first day, they'll probably aim for ten sets, but looking at Vieira, he plans to go even longer."
"What's wrong with ten sets?"
"Just so you know, one set is three round trips."
"...That is pretty intense. But as footballers, we should be able to handle at least that much."
Not only was he calm, but he was actually warming up while joking around with Bergkamp.
Of course, Cesc Fàbregas was also chuckling in disbelief at Vieira's antics. But everyone knew that even if Vieira called a team meeting after training, Fàbregas would simply ignore it, so no one paid him any mind.
Once the warm-up and stretching concluded, the hellish Shuttle Run began.
"I know you're all tired, but you know we'll face much tougher situations during the season. Since you just got off the plane, let's keep it light and do ten sets."
The coach announced the ten sets with a bright smile, causing the players' expressions to harden, but there was no escaping the drill.
One set, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
"Pant... gasp... pant...!"
Young Reiss Nelson's breathing grew ragged, and he became the first casualty to drop out.
"Hmph."
Vieira, who had been running as if it were a light jog, scowled.
Just ten sets! Just hang on for ten sets, you useless bastards!
Van Persie cursed his teammates internally as he watched Vieira's darkening expression. He prayed they would at least survive the ten sets the coach had set. Unfortunately, God did not answer his prayers.
"Ah, I'm done. I'm stopping here."
"Sure, sure. Cesc, go ahead and rest."
It wasn't that Fàbregas had run out of stamina, but his naturally slow pace made keeping up with the speed grueling. When he dropped out after the eighth set, Vieira's face grew even more menacing.
"Useless, lazy kids..."
Catching sight of Nelson vomiting in the distance and Fàbregas casually sipping water next to the coddling coach, Vieira's face contorted into something truly demonic.
"I'm seriously going to kill anyone who runs slower than me."
Muttering under his breath, Vieira kicked up the pace. The sudden acceleration caught the players off guard just as they thought they were nearing the end. One by one, they began to fall behind or collapse onto the pitch.
The goalkeepers, who had been dragged into the drill, dropped out first, followed by the youngsters: Maitland-Niles, Saka, Jack Wilshere, Eddie Nketiah, and the rest. Even Bergkamp, running at his own measured pace far behind, eventually stopped.
Van Persie, having already experienced being grabbed by the collar by Vieira, pushed himself to the absolute limit to stay by the captain's side. But by the time the tenth set neared its end, he was running on empty. The moment the whistle blew to signal the end of the tenth set, he collapsed flat onto the grass.
Yet, Vieira wasn't finished.
"I don't recall saying we were only doing ten sets."
He delivered the death sentence to the gasping squad.
Son of a bitch... He's out for blood today.
Van Persie finally realized the captain's true intentions, but having already collapsed, he couldn't force his body to stand back up. His muscles had officially gone on strike.
Of course, the established first-team players of a similar age to Vieira—like Henry, Walcott, Sol Campbell, and Touré—had all stopped after the tenth set. But unlike those veterans, Van Persie knew all too well, even without being told, that he was still under Vieira's cold, watchful eye.
"Patrice, are you keeping this up?"
"It's the first day, coach! We need to see what these kids are made of!"
"Alright! Go ahead!"
The whistle blew again. The fullbacks and midfielders who prided themselves on their stamina began to drop like flies. Even Fredrik Ljungberg, widely considered to have the best endurance in the squad alongside Vieira, decided he had done enough and sat down.
In the end, only one person remained on the pitch, running stride for stride with Vieira.
"Wow... That is relentless."
"I told you. The kid was running since this morning. He's not just all talk."
Bergkamp's teasing tone irritated Van Persie, but talking back now would only invite more nagging. Ignoring the veteran, Van Persie focused his gaze on the figure running right beside Vieira.
That bastard, trying to show off and save his own skin...!
He absolutely loathed Luka for causing this entire mess.
But what rankled even more...
"Patrice! That's enough! No need to overdo it on day one!"
"Hmph... Understood. And you."
"Pant... gasp... Me?"
"You've got the basics down. It's been a while since we had a decent prospect come up."
...was the distinct impression that even Vieira seemed to approve of him.