Alex sat on the first team bus. His ankle was still a little stiff, but the physio had worked on it all week. He was fit. He was ready.

He was also completely and totally terrified.

He looked out the window. This was not a trip to London. They were on the highway. This was his first official away game as a starting player.

He was wearing his grey club suit. He had his new black boots in his bag.

He looked across the aisle. Mark was sitting there, his own suit a little too shiny, his silver boots already on his feet. He was not vibrating. He was... asleep. He was actually snoring, his head against the window.

Alex just shook his head. Only Mark could be so nervous he just... passed out.

He looked at the seat next to him.

Antoine was there. He was not asleep. He was not reading. He was listening to music, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. He looked... calm.

"You are nervous, Professor," Antoine said. He did not open his eyes.

Alex jumped. "How did you know?"

"You are shaking my seat," Antoine said, his voice amused. "You have been tapping your foot for one hour."

Alex stopped tapping. "Sorry."

"Do not be sorry," Antoine said, opening his eyes. They were sharp and clear. "It is Liverpool. Anfield. It is... a special place. It is normal to be nervous."

"Bastian said they are a storm," Alex said, his voice quiet.

"They are," Antoine agreed. "They are the fastest, strongest pressing team in the world. They will try to eat you."

Alex swallowed. That did not make him feel better.

"But," Antoine continued, "you are the brain. You are the Professor. They are a storm, yes. But a storm is just... wind. It is chaos. It has no brain. You... you have a brain. You will be fine."

He put his headphones back on. "Just... be my shield, yes? Do your job. Be stable. Be boring. Let me be the magic."

Alex nodded. Be the shield. Be stable. Be boring. He could do that.

He looked at his phone. He had a text from his dad.

"I am watching on TV. Your mum has made a cake. We are so proud. Just... be smart. And try not to get kicked."

Alex smiled. He put his phone away. He closed his eyes. He was not an analyst anymore. He was a shield.

The bus pulled up to the stadium. Alex had seen it on TV. But TV did not prepare you for the sound.

Thousands of Liverpool fans were already there. They were singing. They were banging on the side of the bus.

"Welcome to hell, Professor," Harry, the captain, said from the front. "Just keep walking. Do not look scared."

They walked off the bus. The noise was a wave. It hit Alex in the face.

He walked down the famous, narrow tunnel. He saw the sign. The red one.

"THIS IS ANFIELD."

Alex just... stopped. He was touching it. The sign he had seen a million times in his old life.

"Kid!" Bastian grunted from behind him. "Do not touch the sign. It is bad luck. We are the enemy. Now move."

Alex snatched his hand back. He was an idiot.

The away locker room was tiny. And it was painted bright pink.

"What... why is it pink?" Alex asked.

"To make us angry," Harry laughed, pulling on his kit. "A psychological trick. They think it makes us... soft. It is stupid. It just makes me laugh."

The room was small. They were all shoulder to shoulder.

Steve, the manager, stood in the middle.

"This is the loudest place in the world," he said, his voice low. "You will not be able to hear me. You will not be able to hear each other. You have to... think."

He pointed at Alex. "Professor. This is your game. You are the pivot. You are the anchor. They will come for you. Their captain, a big midfielder named Henderson, he will try to break you in half. Do not let him. Be stable. Be the shield."

He pointed at Antoine. "Magician. You are free. Go. Find the space. Be the sword."

He looked at Mark, who was on the bench, looking pale. "Speed. You know the job. Be ready for chaos."

Alex and Antoine looked at each other. The shield and the sword.

"Do not let me down, Professor," Antoine said.

"I will not," Alex replied.

They walked out of the tunnel.

The noise...

Alex had never heard anything like it. It was not just noise. It was a solid thing. It was sixty thousand people, all singing one song. It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

Alex looked at the Liverpool players. They were superstars. Their striker, the Egyptian king. Their giant defender.

And their captain, Henderson. He was already staring at Alex. He was not smiling.

The whistle blew.

The first ten minutes were not football. They were a hurricane.

Liverpool was the storm. They were everywhere. They ran. They pressed. They hit.

Alex could not breathe. He could not think.

He got the ball.

WHAM.

Henderson hit him. A clean, perfect, brutal tackle. Alex was on the grass.

The crowd roared.

Alex got up. His hip was on fire.

He got the ball again. He passed it, one touch, to Harry.

WHAM.

Henderson hit him again. After the pass. The referee did not call it.

"Welcome to Anfield, son!" Henderson yelled. "No time for thinking here!"

Alex was rattled. He was playing scared. He was just... a kid.

He looked at Antoine. Antoine was covered. He could not get the ball.

The shield was broken. And the sword was in its case.

"Professor!" a voice roared.

It was Bastian.

"Stop being a scared boy! Be the rock! Be boring! Do your job!"

Alex took a deep breath. Bastian was right. He was not a fan. He was not a kid. He was the shield.

He got the ball. Henderson came flying in.

Alex saw him coming.

He did not try to turn. He did not try to pass.

He just... stood still. He used his core. He was stable.

Henderson hit him.

THUD.

Alex did not fall. He stumbled, but he stayed on his feet. He had absorbed the hit.

He still had the ball.

He passed it. A simple, five yard pass. To Harry.

The stadium, which had been ready to cheer, just... went quiet for a second. The kid had not fallen over.

Henderson looked... surprised.

The game changed.

Alex was not trying to be a hero. He was just... the shield.

He won the ball. He got low. He was the annoying shadow.

He passed it to Antoine.

Antoine did a magic flick. He was gone. He shot. The keeper saved.

This was the rhythm. Alex win the ball. Antoine make the magic.

It was working. The storm was... fading. Arsenal was controlling the game.

Halftime. Zero zero.

The locker room was quiet. They were just... breathing.

"Good," Steve said. "Good, Professor. You are the anchor. You are boring. I love it. Now, keep doing it. They will get tired. They will make a mistake."

The second half was a war. The game was tight. It was a chess match.

Sixtieth minute.

Liverpool attacked. A cross came in.

Bastian headed it clear.

The ball went high in the air. It was coming down, right at the edge of the box.

It was Alexs ball.

He saw the Liverpool striker running at him.

He saw Henderson running at him.

He was going to get smashed.

Do not be a duck. Be a rock.

He did not go for the header. He knew he would lose.

He just... got his body in the way. He jumped, not for the ball, but for the space. He was stable.

The Liverpool striker ran right into his back.

The ball bounced loose.

Henderson was there. He was about to shoot. The goal was open.

Alex was on the ground. He could not get up.

He just... stuck his leg out. A desperate, sliding, analyst tackle.

He did not touch Henderson.

He just... poked the ball.

A perfect, tiny, beautiful poke.

The stadium gasped.

The ball rolled. Right into the path... of Antoine.

The stadium went from a roar to a dead silence.

Antoine had the ball. The whole Liverpool team was in the wrong place.

Antoine was one on one with the last defender.

He ran.

The defender ran at him.

Antoine just... stopped. He did not do a move. He just... put his foot on the ball.

The defender, who was running so fast, just... slid. He slid right past him, like he was on ice.

The keeper came out.

Antoine looked at him.

He did not shoot.

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

The ball floated.

It hit the back of the net.

One zero.

Anfield was silent. You could hear Antoine yell.

Alex was still on the ground. He was just... laughing.

He had done it. He had been the shield.

He had started the attack.

Antoine did not run to the corner. He ran right to Alex. He pulled his tiny, sixteen year old teammate up from the grass.

"THAT!" Antoine yelled, hugging him. "THAT is a shield! You won the battle, Professor! You won the game!"

The game was almost over. Ninetieth minute.

Alex was so tired he could barely see. His ankle hurt. His hip hurt.

He looked at the sideline.

The number went up.

Number 38. Alex.

He was coming off.

He walked, very slowly, off the pitch.

The Liverpool fans... they were not booing.

They were... clapping.

A few of them. Then more. They were giving him a standing ovation. They were clapping the sixteen year old kid who had come to their home and been the toughest player on the pitch.

Alex did not know what to do. He just... clapped back.

He got to the bench.

Steve, the manager, was waiting. He did not smile. He just... put his hand on Alexs head.

"Good work, son," he said. "You were a rock."

Alex sat down. He was exhausted.

He looked next to him.

Mark was sitting there, his arms crossed. He had not gotten on.

"You," Mark said, his voice quiet.

Alex was too tired to argue. "What, Mark?"

"You were... not bad," Mark said. "You were not a duck at all. You were... solid. That tackle... that was pretty good."

Alex just smiled. "Thanks, Mark."

"But," Mark said, a scowl on his face. "You did not get any assists. I would have scored. If I had been on."

Alex just laughed.

"Next time, Speed," Alex said, closing his eyes. "Next time."

He sat on the bench. He could hear the small pocket of Arsenal fans singing.

"PROFESSOR! PROFESSOR! PROFESSOR!"

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