The hospital room was filled with the sharp smell of disinfectant.
Santi Cazorla lay quietly on the hospital bed.
He looked painfully thin.
The energetic playmaker who had once danced through midfields seemed to have disappeared. His eyes had lost much of their spark, dark circles surrounded them, and his cheeks had noticeably sunk.
His right leg was heavily wrapped in bandages.
The room was silent.
Outside the ward, Kai stood beside Cazorla's wife.
She forced a smile, thanking him for coming.
"This is already the second surgery," she said softly. "But the doctors still aren't optimistic. The specialists at University College Hospital said Santiago may have to retire."
Her voice trembled.
"He spent his whole life playing football, and now I might have to tell him that everything could be over."
She covered her mouth and turned away.
The tears finally came.
For every footballer, injuries were frightening.
For most players, retirement felt distant.
Something that happened to other people.
Kai had thought about injuries before, but standing here, seeing Cazorla reduced to this condition, the reality suddenly became terrifying.
One moment leading to an injury and everything disappears.
He opened his mouth, intending to comfort her, but no words came out.
What could he say?
That everything would be fine?
Nobody knew that.
Fortunately, she quickly regained her composure.
She wiped away her tears and took a deep breath.
"We're not giving up. I've contacted other hospitals. There's a specialist in Victoria, Canada. One of the best surgeons in this field. We want to try."
Kai nodded.
"What about the children?"
"We'll take them with us. Santiago needs his family around him. The children will help him keep fighting."
Kai reached into his coat pocket and took out a bank card.
She immediately shook her head.
"Kai, we can't accept this."
He interrupted gently.
"The club is paying for the treatment, but your family still needs security."
He paused.
"If the worst happens, you can't lose everything because of football."
His voice remained calm.
"There will be rent, schools, travel expenses, and daily life. I don't want you worrying about money while Santiago is fighting for his career."
He placed the card in her hand.
"I'm his friend. Let me do this."
She tried to refuse again.
Kai shook his head.
"Take it."
He looked toward the ward.
"Santi creates miracles. He's done it before. He'll do it again."
At that point, she could no longer hold back her tears.
Kai gently patted her shoulder.
Then he turned and left.
Several minutes later, she finally entered the room.
Santi remained lying on the bed with his eyes closed.
She smiled.
"Your captain came to visit."
No response.
"I know you're awake."
Cazorla slowly opened his eyes.
She held up the card.
"Kai left this."
Cazorla immediately wanted to refuse, but the words stopped in his throat.
His current situation gave him no strength to argue.
His wife suddenly frowned.
"If you have something to say, say it. Don't make me guess everything."
Cazorla forced a smile.
"I feel like a burden."
Her expression immediately softened.
She sat beside him and embraced him carefully.
"Santiago, you are not a burden."
"No matter what happens, our family faces it together."
"You'll recover."
Cazorla instinctively shook his head.
She immediately stared at him.
He quickly nodded.
That finally made her smile.
"Oh, and Kai left a message."
Cazorla looked at her.
"The club will keep your number ten shirt."
She imitated Kai's voice.
"'Right now I'm taking one salary and doing two people's jobs. Hurry up and recover so you can come back and help me.'"
She laughed.
"That's exactly what he said."
Cazorla chuckled.
"He's not afraid my career is over?"
"He said the two of you have already created miracles together."
She looked directly at him.
"And he said you're someone who creates miracles."
The room fell silent.
After a long while, Cazorla slowly exhaled.
"Call Canada."
She blinked.
"The success rate is only forty percent."
"That's still better than this."
His eyes finally showed a trace of life.
"I'll do the surgery."
She immediately nodded.
"I'll call them."
Cazorla turned toward the window.
His gaze drifted beyond the buildings.
Beyond the city.
Back toward the stadium.
Back toward the lights.
Back toward football.
. . .
Several days later, the Britannia Stadium was filled with noise.
Seventy minutes had passed.
Stoke City had defended stubbornly.
Arsenal had struggled to break them down.
Then Kai received the ball.
Paul Merson's voice rose inside the Sky Sports commentary box.
"Kai drives forward again."
One defender.
Two defenders.
He slipped between them.
Martin Tyler shouted:
"Still, Kai!"
The Arsenal captain continued his run.
No pass.
No hesitation.
He struck.
The ball flew into the corner.
Goal.
Paul Merson slammed the desk.
"Goal! Goal! What a goal!"
Martin Tyler roared.
"Kai scores again!"
Gary Neville laughed.
"He just keeps delivering."
The scoreboard changed.
Stoke City 0.
Arsenal 1.
The home supporters fell silent.
Arsenal players sprinted toward their captain.
But Kai ran directly toward the corner flag.
He stopped in front of the television cameras.
Slowly, he lifted his shirt.
The white undershirt underneath carried a simple message.
For Santi Cazorla, my friend.
The stadium became quiet.
The commentators fell silent.
Everyone understood.
Kai knew how football worked.
No matter how brilliant a player had been, time away from the pitch slowly made people forget.
Attention faded.
Importance faded.
Players disappeared.
He would not allow that to happen.
Not to Santi Cazorla.
Not to his friend.
Not to Arsenal's number ten.
Not the man on the treatment table.
Not the midfielder who had carried Arsenal through their Champions League run.
Not the player who had helped push them all the way to the final.
He stood still after scoring, breathing heavily, then slowly turned toward the camera.
His hand rose.
He pointed at the name printed across his undershirt, as if he was telling every supporter watching.
Remember this name.
Inside the stadium, the reaction was delayed.
A brief silence followed.
Confusion at first.
Then recognition.
Cazorla.
The name returned like a memory pulled from somewhere deep.
The Champions League campaign.
The player who had been central to Arsenal's European run.
Then reality followed.
He had been injured.
He had disappeared from weekly conversations.
And somewhere in the noise of new matches, new performances, and Kai's emergence, many had stopped saying his name.
In pubs across London, the reaction was immediate.
Television screens glowed in dim rooms.
Arsenal supporters sat forward, eyes fixed.
Kai's gesture had reached them.
A voice broke the silence in one of the bars.
"Cazorla."
Another followed.
"Cazorla."
Then more.
The sound grew, spreading through tables and counters.
"Cazorla! Cazorla! Cazorla!"
It became unified.
It became rhythmic.
It left the pubs and spilled into the streets.
From one block to another.
From one corner of the city to another.
The name carried through London.
Cazorla!
Cazorla!
Cazorla!
Get well soon.
We are waiting for you.
Emirates Stadium will see you again.
At Stoke City's ground, the Arsenal players had already stopped celebrating.
One by one, they moved closer behind their captain.
They formed a line.
Paul Merson responded.
"He is reminding people of someone important to this club."
Martin Tyler continued.
"Santi Cazorla, a player who played a major role in Arsenal's Champions League campaign last season. His injury has kept him out for a long period, and his situation remains serious."
Merson nodded.
"In football, it is rather unfortunate that players can disappear quickly when they are not on the pitch. Kai is making sure that does not happen here."
Tyler added.
"And that tells you everything you need to know about leadership."
The camera returned to Kai.
Still standing.
Still pointing at his chest.
. . .
Far away, in a hospital room, a television broadcast continued to play.
Cazorla sat in silence.
His wife stood beside him.
The chant came through the speakers.
"Cazorla! Cazorla! Cazorla!"
He lowered his head.
His eyes moistened before tears flowed slowly down his cheeks onto his garments. For a long moment, he said nothing, only clenching his fists with his wife embracing him.
He had not been forgotten.
. . .
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