Footbal: Arsenal - Chapter 65: Mourinho: “I Like Kieran.” Wenger: “No, You Don't.” (Patreon)

With his teammates now chatting to Ronaldo, Ramos, and the other Madrid players, Kieran resumed his own little campaign of making friends.

He went from player to player, shaking hands and agreeing to send shirts through the post after the match so they could complete their exchanges.

Almost everyone was happy to agree.

There was one exception. Without really thinking about it, Kieran passed over one of Madrid's midfielders.

He hadn't paid much attention to the football world in his previous life, but he had been an athlete himself. He clearly remembered this particular player for derogatory remarks he would make about China in the future.

So when he approached that midfielder's position, he simply turned aside and offered his hand to Mourinho, who had just stepped onto the pitch.

Unfortunately, once Mourinho caught hold of his hand, Kieran discovered he couldn't get it back.

The Madrid manager smiled warmly and patted him on the shoulder without releasing his grip.

“Son, would you be interested in playing for my team?”

Kieran managed an awkward smile. “Real Madrid?”

Mourinho shook his head, declining to give a definite answer.

“Son, I can practically see your future. You're going to be a player who changes football. You have that presence about you. We're both special.”

When Mourinho wanted to charm someone, he knew exactly how to do it.

He began showering Kieran with praise.

“There's something unmistakable about your game. Think of Ronaldo or Ronaldinho. The moment they walked onto a pitch, everyone knew they were watching a player unlike the others. You have that same quality.”

He smiled, sounding utterly certain of his judgment.

“You might become the most beloved player of your generation simply because watching you is such a pleasure. When my staff and I study your performances, there are moments when I forget the match, forget the statistics, and become absorbed in the football you create.”

“If I didn't know you were only sixteen, I'd call you an exceptionally mature professional.”

Kieran burst out laughing, then remembered to sound at least a little modest. “Hahaha! Not at all. I've still got plenty of growing to do.”

Mourinho wasn't finished.

“I understand what Arsenal means to you, and what Wenger means to you. It's no different from the way I feel about football or about winning. These are things we can't simply abandon.”

“But sometimes you have to go away to come back stronger. Perhaps after learning my football philosophy as my student, you'd return to Wenger a much more complete player.”

The grin that had spread across Kieran's face under all that praise vanished immediately.

If the Professor heard this, there would be trouble!

He was just about to shake his head as hard as he could when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

“José, you've coached so many fine players,” Wenger said politely. “A great many consider you the best manager in the world. Surely you should devote your attention to them?”

The meaning was unmistakable.

Stay away from my boy.

Mourinho finally let go of Kieran's hand. He lifted his chin and folded his arms.

“There's no conflict. I understand your limitations. You might only be able to look after a handful of players. But I'm younger than you, and I have rather more energy. I can teach Kieran and still find time for everyone else.”

When Mourinho decided to be irritating, he could be the most irritating man on earth.

At least, that was Wenger's opinion.

The two had traded barbs constantly when Mourinho managed Chelsea.

Before his arrival, the Premier League had been dominated by Wenger's Arsenal and Ferguson's Manchester United.

Then Mourinho had walked into Chelsea in a sharp suit, broken that duopoly, and told the media that he was the Special One.

And, infuriatingly, he'd lived up to the name.

Before matches came the mind games and verbal duels. On the pitch came his distinctive, results-driven counterattacking football.

After a victory, he became even more insufferable. After a defeat, he still found something to argue about, dragging Wenger and Ferguson into more public exchanges whether they wanted them or not.

The worst part was that Mourinho really was an excellent young manager. At Chelsea, he'd wrested Premier League titles away from both of them.

Wenger knew his methods too well to be bothered by another remark about age.

Rather than answer the insult, he adopted a look of kindly concern.

“José, I hear the Real Madrid directors aren't entirely happy with you. And some of your players seem... unsettled. If you're having difficulties, do tell me.”

Kieran stared at the Professor, wide-eyed. Wenger's expression looked genuinely sympathetic.

Apparently his manager knew exactly how to annoy someone too.

The apparently considerate question hit a nerve with Mourinho.

He was furious, although he did a remarkable job of hiding it.

“Thank you. Well, perhaps congratulations are in order. It seems we might be opponents again.”

Wenger understood at once.

Madrid had evidently decided Mourinho would leave at the end of the season. Even if the club hadn't made that decision, Mourinho himself had no intention of staying.

From the information Wenger had gathered, Chelsea were the likeliest club to bring him back to the Premier League.

With Abramovich funding the club and Mourinho managing it again, Chelsea would probably recruit heavily during the summer transfer window.

That would make them a much greater threat in both the league and the Champions League.

Hardly reassuring news for Arsenal.

At last, the two managers exchanged a civil handshake and went their separate ways.

Once the players and staff had finished greeting their opposite numbers, the post-match proceedings began to wind down.

Kieran agreed with several Madrid players that they would follow one another on social media. Supporters began filing out, and the teams started leaving the pitch.

With two goals and an assist, Kieran was named Man of the Match yet again.

Wenger and Arteta went to the press conference without him.

Reporters asked repeatedly why Arsenal's biggest hero hadn't appeared, with some accusing the club of denying him the chance to face the media.

Mourinho happily joined in the criticism.

“I think Wenger and Arsenal are much too controlling where Kieran is concerned,” he said.

“Players have minds of their own. They're not delicate flowers to be kept in a greenhouse, and they're certainly not puppets. I can't imagine any reasonable justification for keeping him away from this press conference.”

The way he spoke, anyone might have thought Wenger and Arsenal had been mistreating the boy.

Wenger listened with his customary composure, a pleasant smile never leaving his face.

“While you're marveling at Kieran's performances,” he replied, “please remember that he is still a sixteen-year-old child.”

“If every journalist questioned him with that in mind, perhaps I wouldn't have to choose between letting our young hero celebrate with his teammates and bringing him here to face the hostility of certain newspapers.”

That answer quieted most of the room.

Even the representatives of The Sun and the Daily Mail said nothing.

Who were these “certain newspapers” he meant?

Certainly not them. They had no intention of volunteering to be the target of his criticism.

Kieran wasn't merely Arsenal's match winner anymore. He was being celebrated as one of England's brightest emerging talents, with recognition extending to the FA itself.

What English newspaper would dare to attack him openly now?

There were always fears that the country's more aggressive football supporters might take their anger beyond words and turn up at a newspaper's offices.

For the moment, the English sports press seemed remarkably united in its praise.

Kieran, meanwhile, knew nothing about what had been said in the press conference.

Once he'd finished celebrating with his teammates, he'd wandered straight into the mixed zone.

There, an enormous crowd of reporters surrounded him, leaving him unable to move either forward or back.