September.

Marseille, France.

The Mediterranean air carried a strange mix of salt, smoke, and song. The Vélodrome's curved stands loomed like a white coliseum under the floodlights, every seat a fragment of a roaring mosaic. It was the first night of the Champions League group stage, and in Marseille, that meant the city had been building toward this moment all day — from the morning café chatter to the afternoon drum circles in the Old Port.

By dusk, the streets leading to the stadium had turned into rivers of humanity, white Marseille shirts flowing together like a tide. Drums beat in slow, steady rhythms; blue-and-white flags snapped in the wind.

On the esplanade, vendors sold roasted chestnuts, scarves, and printed "Beat Arsenal" T-shirts. Every so often, a flare hissed into life, painting faces crimson for a heartbeat before the smoke rolled across the crowd.

In the middle of it all, a single speck of red bobbed through the sea of white — a little boy, no more than ten, his Arsenal jersey almost scandalous in its defiance. Around him, locals exchanged narrowed glances, muttering under their breath. Beside him walked a young man in a Marseille jersey, who looked less certain about their little adventure.

"Little Al, you should've worn a Marseille shirt over it," the young man muttered nervously, scanning the crowd.

The boy, Al Phoebe, tilted his chin up in mock bravery. "No! Arsenal fans aren't afraid of difficulties." His voice was small, but his conviction was bigger than the stadium itself.

The youth grimaced. "If your dad finds out, I'm done for."

"Dad will never know," Al said with a grin that suggested otherwise.

They reached the ticket office, its windows plastered with the bold blue starball logo of the Champions League. The boy stepped forward, clutching the coins and notes in his pocket like treasure.

"Two away tickets, please!" he said.

The ticket clerk gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry — sold out."

Al froze. Sold out? On a night like this, he'd imagined destiny had been saving two seats just for him. They stepped away, his fingers fidgeting with the money he'd saved, the distant sound of the Champions League anthem echoing faintly from a warm-up clip on the stadium speakers.

"It's not hopeless," the young man said at last, leading him to a shadowed corner where a scalper leaned against the wall, a stack of tickets in hand.

"How much for two away ends?"

"Two hundred each," the scalper replied without hesitation.

Al gaped. "That's robbery! Group stage tickets are only sixty-nine. I've been here before!"

The scalper's grin was all teeth. "Sixty-nine if you buy from the club. But the club's got none left, does it?" He waggled the tickets, the silver material glinting under the lamplight. "Two hundred. For a Champions League night, it's not so bad."

Al counted his money. Enough for only one. The young man noticed and sighed.

"Go on. You've been dreaming about this. Don't regret it later."

"But what about you?"

"I'll watch outside with the other Arsenal fans," he said, pulling off his Marseille jersey to reveal the red of Arsenal beneath.

Before Al could answer, a deep voice spoke from behind the security rail. "Need help, lads?"

They turned to see a broad-shouldered man in Arsenal's staff tracksuit — Martin Hughes— smiling knowingly. He flashed his work permit and gestured toward the gate.

Minutes later, they were following him through winding corridors until the muffled roar of the stadium became a physical vibration in their ribs. And then — they stepped out behind the player tunnel.

The two teams stood in immaculate lines, shirts pressed, boots gleaming. The scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with the tang of liniment in the air. Al's eyes went wide; he could hear the buzz of cameras, the hum of anticipation before the anthem.

Martin crouched down. "Want to walk out with the players? Who's your favourite?"

"Kai!" the boy said instantly.

Martin chuckled. "Good choice. Our captain. Want to lead from the front?"

With Al's permission, Martin got him the walkout clothes.

Soon, the caddies filed in, and Martin gave Al a pat on the back. "Go on — you'll hold Kai's hand."

Al moved almost on autopilot, finding himself behind the referee, the bright lights spilling ahead. When Kai glanced down, he caught the boy staring at him like he was a figure from a dream.

"Arsenal fan?" the captain asked.

Al nodded furiously.

"Know our call before we walk out?"

Another nod.

"Then you lead it."

When the referees gave the signal, the tunnel erupted.

"Go forward!" the boy cried, his small voice breaking with excitement.

"Gunners!" the players roared in unison.

The curtain of night split open to the deafening sound of the crowd. Marseille's south stand thundered their chants — "Aux Armes !" — while boos rained down on the visiting red shirts. The Champions League anthem swelled through the Vélodrome, and for those three minutes, every seat, every camera, every heartbeat in the stadium belonged to the spectacle.

Ce sont les meilleures équipes

Sie sind die allerbesten Mannschaften

The main event

Die Meister

Die Besten

Les grandes équipes

The champions

Une grande réunion

Eine große sportliche Veranstaltung

The main event

Ils sont les meilleurs

Sie sind die Besten

These are the champions

Die Meister

Die Besten

Les grandes équipes

The champions

...

In the stands, David Phoebe was cursing Arsenal as loudly as any local, until the big screen showed Kai leading the team out — holding the hand of a small, familiar boy.

"AL?!" His roar could be heard several rows away.

But Al didn't hear. He was living the dream — lining up with the players, standing shoulder-to-shoulder during the handshake, cameras flashing, the roar of European football washing over him.

Back in the tunnel before kick-off, he was still bouncing on his toes.

"Come to the Emirates sometime," Martin Hughes told him with a grin. "You think this is loud? You haven't heard North London on a Champions League night."

Al nodded so hard his hair shook. From that night on, there would be no doubt — he was Arsenal, through and through.

And somewhere in the upper tier, his father was still shouting.