Alex sat at a small wooden desk. The room was silent, except for the scratching of pens on paper and the ticking of a clock on the wall.

It was Tuesday morning. He was not at the Emirates Stadium. He was not at the training ground. He was in history class.

He was taking an exam on the Industrial Revolution.

Alex sighed. He looked at the question: "Explain the impact of the steam engine on transport."

His analyst brain wanted to write about pass completion rates and transition play. He forced himself to write about coal and trains.

He was seventeen years old. He was a Champions League winner. He was an England international.

And he still had to finish high school.

His phone, hidden deep in his pocket, buzzed.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

It buzzed again. And again.

The teacher, Mr. Henderson (no relation to the Liverpool captain), looked up over his glasses. He glared at the class.

Alex froze. He knew who it was. It was Mark.

Mark did not go to school anymore. Mark had "graduated to chaos," as he called it.

Alex quickly finished his sentence about steam trains. He handed his paper in.

"Finished early, Mr. Finch?" the teacher asked.

"Yes, sir," Alex said. "I have... work."

"Right. work," the teacher sighed. "Try not to get injured. I have you in my Fantasy Football team."

Alex smiled. "I will try, sir."

He walked out of the school gates.

A bright, neon green sports car was waiting at the curb. It was revving its engine loudly. It looked like a spaceship that had crashed into a lime.

The window rolled down.

Mark was in the driver's seat. He was wearing sunglasses. He was grinning.

"get in, loser!" Mark yelled. "We are going to the Champions League!"

Alex got in. The car smelled of new leather and Hurricane Energy drink.

"Mark," Alex said, buckling his seatbelt. "You passed your driving test yesterday. Is this safe?"

"I am the Arrow!" Mark shouted, accelerating. "I have great reflexes! And this car... it is fast. It matches my boots!"

Alex held onto the handle. "Just... keep your eyes on the road, Speed. Not on the fans."

"Everyone is waving at me!" Mark said, waving back with both hands.

"MARK! THE WHEEL!"

Mark grabbed the wheel. "Relax, Professor. I am in control. Mostly."

They arrived at the training ground. Alive.

Tonight was the first group game of the new Champions League season.

Arsenal vs. Paris Saint-Germain.

It was a clash of giants.

And it was a rematch.

Alex vs. Kylian Mbappe.

The last time they met, it was the Euro Final. England had won. Mbappe was angry.

"He is coming for you, Professor," Antoine said in the locker room. Antoine was French. He knew Mbappe better than anyone.

"He texted me," Antoine said, lacing up his boots. "He said... 'Tell the little Professor I am bringing my running shoes.'"

"He is fast," Jude Bellingham said. Jude was sitting on the bench, looking like a calm, powerful lion. "But I am strong. If he runs... I will just stand in his way."

"He runs around walls, Jude," Alex said, looking at his data pad. "He doesn't fight. He glides."

"Then we catch him," Mark said, bouncing a ball on his knee. "I am fast too. I will race him."

"You are a striker, Mark," Alex sighed. "Please do not race him in our own box. You will give away a penalty."

The Emirates was glowing.

Champions League nights were special. The stars on the banner in the center circle seemed to shine.

The music played. The Chaaaaampions.

Alex stood in the line. He looked at the PSG team.

They were superstars.

And there, at the front, was Mbappe.

He looked focused. He looked deadly. He looked at Alex.

He didn't smile. He didn't wink.

He just did a little running motion with his fingers. Catch me if you can.

Alex swallowed.

Steve, the manager, had given the team talk.

"They rely on him," Steve had said. "Mbappe is their weapon. If we stop him, we stop them. But we cannot stop him with one player. We need... a cage."

He looked at Alex, Jude, and Bastian.

"The Cage. Bastian, you are the wall behind. Jude, you are the wall in front. Alex... you are the lock. You read where he wants to go, and you tell the walls where to move."

"Got it," Alex said.

The whistle blew.

PSG started fast.

They didn't play possession like Barcelona. They played direct.

Their midfielder got the ball. He didn't look up. He just hit it long. Into the channel.

Mbappe ran.

It was terrifying.

He went from zero to top speed in one second.

Bastian turned. He was big, but he wasn't a sprinter.

Mbappe was past him.

"JUDE!" Alex screamed.

Jude saw it. He powered back. He was an engine.

He got shoulder to shoulder with Mbappe.

CRUNCH.

Two titans collided.

Jude held his ground. He nudged Mbappe just enough.

The ball rolled out of play.

Mbappe looked at Jude. He looked surprised. He wasn't used to players who could keep up.

"Strong," Mbappe said.

"English beef," Jude grinned.

The crowd roared. The Cage was working. But only just.

The game settled. Arsenal had the ball.

Alex was the brain.

He had Jude now. It was different.

With Antoine, Alex had to be the stable one.

With Jude... Alex could be creative.

Alex got the ball. He looked up.

He saw Mbappe staying high. He wasn't defending. He was waiting for the counter.

He is cheating, Alex thought. He is leaving a gap.

Alex looked at Jude. He pointed to the space behind Mbappe.

Jude understood.

Alex played the pass.

It wasn't a long ball. It was a sharp, vertical pass through the midfield lines.

Jude received it on the turn.

He drove forward.

Mbappe tried to chase back, but he was too late.

Jude was like a tank. He ran through the PSG midfield.

He passed to Antoine.

Antoine did a flick.

Mark was running. The Arrow.

Mark got the ball. He shot.

The PSG keeper made a great save.

"Close!" Mark yelled. "Next time!"

Halftime. Zero zero.

It was a high-speed chess match.

"They are waiting for the mistake," Steve said in the locker room. "Mbappe is a cobra. He is sleeping. Do not wake him up with a bad pass."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are playing well. But you are playing safe. You are worried about the counter."

"If I lose the ball, he scores," Alex said.

"Yes," Steve agreed. "But if you don't risk the ball... we don't score. We need a goal. We need the Hurricane."

He looked at the four of them. The Diamond.

"Alex. Jude. Antoine. Mark. Combine. Make them dizzy. Play... faster."

The second half started.

Alex took a deep breath. Play faster.

He got the ball.

He didn't look for the safe pass to Bastian.

He looked for the hard pass. To Antoine.

He hit it. A zipped pass into tight space.

Antoine controlled it instantly.

The PSG defense collapsed on Antoine.

Antoine flicked it to Jude.

Jude was running full speed.

He didn't stop. He played a one-touch pass.

To Alex.

Alex had continued his run. The "Third Man Run".

He was on the edge of the box.

He saw the goal.

But he saw a defender sliding in.

Alex didn't shoot.

He did the "Fake Fake".

He chopped the ball. The defender slid past.

Alex looked up.

Mark was making a run to the back post.

But Alex saw something else.

Jude.

Jude had continued his run. He was charging into the box like a freight train.

Alex chipped the ball.

A soft, gentle, perfect chip.

It hung in the air.

Jude jumped.

He jumped higher than the defenders. He was powerful.

THUMP.

He headed the ball.

Down into the ground. It bounced up into the roof of the net.

GOAL!

One zero. Arsenal.

The Emirates exploded.

Jude ran to the corner. He opened his arms wide. The "Bellingham" celebration.

Alex ran to him. Mark ran to him. Antoine ran to him.

The Diamond Hurricane.

"POWER!" Mark yelled, jumping on Jude's back. "THAT WAS POWER!"

"Good chip, Professor," Jude laughed, carrying Mark like a backpack. "You put it on a plate."

PSG was angry now.

Mbappe woke up.

The 75th minute.

Arsenal lost the ball in midfield. A rare mistake by Antoine.

PSG countered.

The ball went to Mbappe.

He was on the wing.

He ran at Alex.

It was the nightmare scenario. The Professor vs The Flash. One on one.

Alex backed off. Delay. Delay. Wait for help.

Mbappe did a stepover. Then another. His feet were a blur.

He pushed the ball past Alex.

Alex tried to turn. Mbappe was gone.

He was too fast.

Mbappe cut inside. He shot.

It was a rocket.

It beat the keeper.

It hit the post.

CLANG.

The ball bounced back out.

Bastian cleared it.

Alex let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He had been beaten. But the post had saved him.

"Focus!" Bastian roared. "He is awake!"

The last ten minutes were terrifying.

PSG threw everything forward.

Alex was not an attacker anymore. He was a defender.

He blocked a shot. He intercepted a cross.

He was tired. His legs felt like lead.

Ninetieth minute.

PSG corner.

The keeper came up.

The ball came in.

Jude headed it clear.

The ball fell to Alex.

He was on the edge of his own box.

He looked up.

Mark was on the halfway line.

But there was a defender back. A fast one. Hakimi.

If Alex kicked it long, it was a 50/50 race.

Alex didn't kick it long.

He saw Antoine.

Antoine was standing near the sideline, unmarked.

Alex passed to Antoine.

Antoine held the ball. He waited.

The PSG players ran at him.

Antoine smiled.

He played a pass back to Alex.

Alex had run into space.

Now... the pitch was open.

Alex ran.

He wasn't fast like Mark. But he was free.

He crossed the halfway line.

Mark was running with him. Two against one.

Hakimi, the defender, had to choose.

Alex or Mark?

Alex looked at Mark. He shaped his body to pass.

Hakimi moved towards Mark.

Alex didn't pass.

He kept running.

He was at the edge of the box.

The keeper was back in his goal now, but he was unsettled.

Alex had a choice. Pass or shoot?

He was the Professor. He calculated the odds.

Mark had the better angle. But Hakimi was recovering.

Alex saw the bottom corner.

He didn't smash it.

He used the inside of his foot. The "Control" boot.

He placed it.

The ball rolled. Precise. Accurate. Inevitable.

It hit the side netting.

GOAL.

Two zero.

Game over.

Alex just fell to his knees. He was too tired to celebrate.

Mark ran over. He didn't jump on him. He sat down next to him on the grass.

"You didn't pass," Mark said, panting.

"I had the angle," Alex wheezed.

Mark grinned. "Selfish. I like it. You are learning."

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. PSG 0.

They had beaten another giant.

Alex stood up. He shook hands with the PSG players.

Mbappe walked past. He looked angry. But he stopped.

"You were lucky," Mbappe said. "The post."

"Luck is part of the data," Alex replied.

Mbappe almost smiled. "See you in Paris, Professor."

He walked away.

Alex walked to the fans. They were singing his name.

"ALEX FINCH! HE'S ONE OF OUR OWN!"

He wasn't just a wonderkid anymore. He wasn't just a prospect.

He was the heart of the best team in Europe. He looked at Jude, who was waving to the crowd. He looked at Antoine and Mark, who were dancing. He looked at Steve, the manager, who gave him a thumbs up.

Alex smiled. He had a history exam tomorrow. He hadn't studied. But tonight... tonight he was the King of London. And that was all that mattered.

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