"Okay," his dad said, his voice a little shaky.

"You have your new boots?"

"Yes, dad. The black ones."

"And your shin pads? And your phone?"

"Yes, dad."

"And... okay. Good. Good." His dad just looked at him. "Everton, Alex. This is a big one. Goodison Park. It is... it is a tough place. They are... they are loud."

"I know," Alex said, his heart doing a small flip. His analyst brain had watched three Everton games. They were not just tough. They were physical. They were fast. They were everything he was not.

The giant, black first team bus pulled up. The door hissed open.

"That is me," Alex said.

"Okay." His dad pulled him into a hard, quick hug. "Be smart, Alex. Be stable. And... do not let them kick you too hard."

"I will try," Alex laughed.

He walked onto the bus.

It was quiet. Not the loud, shouting U18 bus. Not the nervous, silent U21 bus. This was... professional.

Harry, the captain, was in the front, reading a book. He looked up and smiled. "Morning, Professor. Grab a seat."

Bastian was in his usual spot, a few rows back. He was already asleep, his giant headphones on.

Alex walked down the aisle. He saw Mark.

Mark was sitting alone. He was also in his new suit, the shiny blue one. He was staring out the window, vibrating.

Alex sat down in the seat across from him.

"Morning, Speed," Alex said.

Mark jumped. "I am not sleeping! I am... I am visualizing."

"You look like you are about to explode," Alex said.

"I am ready," Mark hissed. "This is a big game. They are tough. We need chaos. I am chaos. Are you ready?"

"I am just... trying to be stable," Alex said, remembering his dads words.

"Stable is boring," Mark said. "Be smart. Be fast. Find me."

Alex just shook his head and pulled out his phone. He was not going to watch a movie. He was going to read his notes. He had a whole file on the Everton midfield. Their weak foot. Their turning speed. Their favorite pass.

He was an analyst. And he had homework to do.

Goodison Park was just as his dad had warned. It was old, loud, and the fans felt like they were sitting on his shoulders.

When Alex ran out to warm up, a man in the front row yelled, "Go home and do your homework, kid! This is a man's game!"

Alex just smiled and kept jogging. He was in his new, all black "Control" boots. He felt good.

The locker room was small and painted a strange, bright blue.

Steve, the manager, gathered them. "This is not Fulham," he said, his voice low. "They are not smart. They are strong. They will press. They will run. They will target you."

He pointed right at Alex.

"They saw the Fulham game. They know you are the brain. They will try to smash you. They will try to make you panic."

Alex felt his stomach tighten.

"Do not panic," Steve said. "Be the Professor. Be stable. Be smart. Do your job. Drag them around. Make them look stupid. And when they get tired... we bring on the chaos."

He nodded at Mark, who looked like he was about to run through a wall.

"Go," Steve said. "Win the fight. Then win the game."

The whistle blew.

The noise was a physical thing. It hit Alex in the chest.

Everton were not playing football. They were playing... anger.

They flew at Arsenal.

Alex got his first touch. He passed it, one touch, to Harry.

WHAM.

A second late, their star midfielder, a huge, tough player named Doyle, smashed into Alex. He did not go for the ball. He went for Alex.

Alex went flying. He landed hard on his shoulder.

The referee blew his whistle. Foul.

Alex lay there, gasping. His shoulder was on fire.

Okay. So this is the game.

Harry ran over and pulled him up. "You okay, kid?"

"I am... stable," Alex panted.

Doyle just sneered at him. "Welcome to the game, kid. It is going to be a long day."

For the next twenty minutes, it was a war. Doyle was not a man marker. He was a shadow. A big, angry, violent shadow.

Every time Alex got the new, his shadow was there, kicking his ankle, pulling his shirt, whispering in his ear.

"You are too small, kid. You are going to get hurt."

Alex did not get angry. He got smart.

His analyst brain took over. Doyle was fast. He was strong. But he was... simple. He was only watching Alex. He was not watching the game.

Alex started his puppet master routine.

He got the ball. He played it simple.

Then he ran. He ran away from the ball, dragging his new shadow with him.

He ran to the left. A huge hole opened in the middle.

Harry, the captain, ran into the space. He got the ball. He shot.

The keeper saved it.

Alex did it again. He ran right. Doyle followed, cursing at him.

Space. Attack. Chance.

The Everton coach was screaming. "Doyle! Stop following him! Stay in your zone!"

Doyle was confused. He was stuck.

Alex got the ball. He had space now. Doyle was afraid to leave.

Alex looked up. He was the pivot. He was the brain.

He hit a perfect, forty yard pass to the winger.

The winger crossed.

The Arsenal striker, who was not Mark, got his head on it.

GOAL!

One zero.

The stadium went silent, except for the tiny corner of Arsenal fans.

The whole team ran to the striker.

But Harry, the captain, just jogged over to Alex. He did not say anything. He just... pointed at his own head. Brains.

Alex just nodded.

Doyle, the shadow, looked like he was going to eat Alex.

"You are dead, kid," he hissed.

Halftime. One zero. Alex was covered in bruises. He was happy.

Steve, the manager, was calm. "Good brain, Professor. You beat him. He is angry now. He is going to be stupid. Be ready."

The second half started.

Doyle was not just a shadow anymore. He was a missile.

In the fiftieth minute, Alex got the ball. He turned.

Doyle came in. He was not going for the ball. He was late. He was high. His studs were up.

It was a terrible, horrible, leg breaking tackle.

Alex saw it. His analyst brain screamed.

He was not fast enough to get away.

He was not strong enough to win.

So he just... did what Chloe the trainer taught him. He braced his core. He jumped.

He was not a duck. He was... a rock.

He jumped just as Doyle hit him. He absorbed the impact.

It still hurt. It hurt a lot. He went flying.

The whistle blew. It was not a yellow card. It was a red card. Straight red. Doyle was off. He had to be pulled off the pitch, he was so angry.

Alex was on the ground. His ankle. It was on fire.

The physio ran on.

"I am fine," Alex said, gritting his teeth. "I am fine. I am stable."

He stood up. He was limping. But he was standing.

The whole stadium was booing him. They thought he had faked it.

Bastian walked over. "You are not fine. You are limping."

"I am fine," Alex said, his voice tight.

"You are stupid," Bastian grunted. "But you are... tough. You are a small, stupid rock. Good."

The game restarted. Arsenal was winning. And they had one more player.

The game should have been easy.

But Alex was hurt. He was slow. He was a liability.

He looked over at the bench. He saw Mark, bouncing up and down.

Come on, coach. Make the change.

The clock hit seventy five minutes.

Steve called the tired winger over.

"Mark! Speed! Go! Chaos!"

Mark ran onto the pitch. He was a silver bullet. He ran right to Alex.

"You are hurt," Mark said.

"I am fine," Alex lied. "He is tired. The left back. He is exhausted. Run at him."

"Good," Mark said. "Find me."

Arsenal won the ball. Harry passed it to Alex.

Alex was seventy yards from goal. His ankle was screaming. He did not care.

He looked up.

He saw Mark.

Mark was not running straight. He was running his new move. The 'fake fake'.

He ran at the defender. He faked right. The tired defender shifted.

He faked the cut left. The defender's legs turned to jelly.

And Mark just... exploded. He ran right. Into the open space.

It was beautiful.

Alex did not care about his ankle. He did not care about the pain.

He saw the pass.

He hit it.

He put everything he had into it. His new core. His smarts. His right foot.

It was a sixty yard pass. A perfect, curling, beautiful laser.

The ball flew. The crowd gasped.

It landed. It did not bounce. It just... stopped. Right on Mark's foot.

The keeper came out.

Mark looked at him. He did not stop the ball. He did not smash it.

He just... chipped it. A soft, tiny, arrogant, beautiful chip.

The ball floated, in slow motion, over the keeper's head.

It hit the back of the net.

Two nil. Game over.

Mark did not scream. He did not run.

He just... turned.

He pointed.

He pointed right at Alex.

Then he pointed at his head. Brains.

Then he pointed at his silver boots. Speed.

The package.

Alex just fell over. He was too tired. He was too happy. He just sat on the grass, his ankle throAbbing.

He was in the locker room. His ankle was a giant bucket of ice.

It hurt. But he did not care.

He was holding the Man of the Match bottle of champagne. His second one.

Mark was next to him, his silver boots covered in mud. He was being interviewed by the club TV.

"It was all him," Mark was saying. He was pointing at Alex. "I just... I just ran. He did the magic. The pass was... it was perfect. He is the Professor. I am just... the guy who kicks it."

Alex just sat there, his face red, his ankle frozen.

BGen, the U21 captain, was on the bus. He had been a sub. He walked over.

"Okay, Professor," Ben grunted. "You are not a traffic cone anymore. You are tough. I will give you that."

Bastian sat next to him. "Small rock," he said. "Good. You are a small, strong, smart rock."

Alex just smiled.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out.

A new text. From Antoine.

He opened it.

"I saw the game. I saw the tackle. You are crazy. I saw the pass. It was beautiful. You are making it very hard for me."

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