"It is addressed to you, Professor," his dad said. "It arrived by special courier. A man on a motorcycle. He had a very shiny helmet."

Alex put down his spoon. He took the envelope.

He opened it.

Inside was a thick card with gold edges.

The Golden Boy Awards.

Paris. Monday Night.

Nominee: Alex Finch.

Alex stared at it. The Golden Boy. The award for the best young player in Europe.

"I am... nominated?" Alex whispered.

"Nominated?" his mum squealed from the kitchen. "You are going to win! You are the Professor! You beat Madrid! You beat City!"

"There are other players, mum," Alex said. "Bellingham. Musiala. Gavi."

"They are not my son," she said firmly. "Do you need a tuxedo? I can iron your school suit."

"I do not think the school suit will work for this one, mum," Alex smiled.

He arrived at the training ground.

Milo was already there.

Milo was wearing a suit that looked like it was made of actual gold bars. It was blinding.

"THE GOLDEN BOY!" Milo screamed, running across the car park. "ALEX! WE ARE GOING TO PARIS!"

"I have a game on Saturday, Milo," Alex said, getting out of the car.

"Luton Town!" Milo waved his hand. "A warm up! A rehearsal! The real show is Monday! The red carpet! The cameras! I have arranged a suit. It is velvet. It is midnight blue. You will look like a prince!"

Mark got out of the passenger seat. He was wearing his silver Arrow t shirt.

"Am I invited?" Mark asked. "I am the Speed. I am the Lightning. Surely the Lightning goes to Paris?"

Milo looked at Mark. "You are... a plus one."

"A plus one?" Mark looked offended. "I am a guest? I am not a nominee?"

"Next year, Speed," Milo said. "This year, you are the entourage. You hold the trophy. You look cool."

"I can do cool," Mark said, putting on his sunglasses. "I will look very cool."

The manager, Steve, was not thinking about Paris.

He was standing in the locker room. He looked angry.

"Luton," Steve barked. "Saturday. At home."

He looked at Alex.

"I see the invite, Professor. I know about the Golden Boy. Congratulations. It is a big honor."

The team clapped. Alex looked at his feet.

"But," Steve said, the room going quiet. "If you think about Paris... if you think about tuxedos... if you think about gold trophies... Luton will punch you in the mouth."

He pointed to the tactics board.

"Luton are fighters. They are scrappy. They run. They tackle. They do not care that you are famous. They want to beat the Golden Boy."

He looked at Jude. He looked at Antoine.

"You are the superstars. But on Saturday, you must be workmen. You must earn the right to wear the velvet suit. Understood?"

"Yes, coach," they all said.

Saturday came.

It was pouring rain. Classic English football weather.

Alex stood in the tunnel. He was not thinking about Paris. He was thinking about his ankle. A Luton defender was staring at it like a dog staring at a bone.

Mark was starting. He was buzzing.

"I am going to score a hat trick," Mark whispered. "Then I will tell the judges in Paris. They will have to give me a prize too."

"Just play, Speed," Alex said.

The whistle blew.

Luton did not play football. They played "kick the Arsenal player".

It was ugly. It was messy.

Every time Alex got the ball, two players hit him.

"Hollywood!" a Luton player yelled after fouling Alex. "Go back to your red carpet!"

Alex got up. He did not say anything. He was the Shield. He was stable.

But the team was distracted.

Antoine was trying too many tricks. He wanted to look good for the highlight reel.

Jude was trying to score from forty yards.

They were not playing as a team. They were playing as individuals.

Luton scored first.

A long throw in. A scramble. A toe poke.

One zero. Luton.

The crowd groaned.

Alex looked at his teammates. They looked frustrated. They were thinking about the gala. They were thinking about the glory.

Alex clapped his hands.

"STOP!" he yelled.

Antoine looked at him. Jude looked at him.

"Forget Paris!" Alex shouted. his voice cutting through the rain. "We are here! In the mud! If we lose this... we look like clowns in Paris! Do you want to be a loser in a tuxedo?"

Jude blinked. "No."

"Then play!" Alex roared. "Simple! Fast! Now!"

The Professor had spoken.

The team woke up.

Alex got the ball. He did not try a magic pass. He played it simple. To Jude.

Jude drove forward. He used his power.

He smashed through a tackle. He passed to Antoine.

Antoine did not flick it. He passed it. To Mark.

Mark used his speed. He beat the defender.

He crossed.

Alex was there. The late run. The ghost run.

He hit it first time.

GOAL.

One one.

Alex did not celebrate. He ran into the net, grabbed the ball, and ran back to the center circle.

"AGAIN!" he yelled.

The team followed him. The hunger was back.

In the 80th minute, Alex saw the gap.

Luton was tired. They were chasing shadows.

Alex had the ball. He saw Mark making a run.

But he also saw Jude making a run.

And Antoine.

The Hurricane was in full force.

Alex faked the pass to Mark. The defender moved.

He faked the pass to Antoine. The other defender moved.

He slid the ball to Jude.

Jude was one on one.

He smashed it.

GOAL.

Two one.

They had turned it around. They had done the work.

The final whistle blew.

Alex was covered in mud. His hair was a mess. He was exhausted.

But they had won.

Steve walked onto the pitch. He smiled.

"Good," Steve said. "Now... you can go to Paris. You earned the suit."

The private jet to Paris was a party.

Milo was there, serving non alcoholic champagne.

"PARIS!" Milo screamed. "THE CITY OF LIGHTS! AND WE ARE BRINGING THE ELECTRICITY!"

Alex sat next to Mark.

Mark was wearing a face mask. A green, slimy beauty face mask.

"I have to look radiant," Mark said, his voice muffled. "I am the entourage. The cameras will see me."

"You look like a swamp monster," Alex laughed.

Jude was sleeping. Antoine was reading a fashion magazine.

Alex looked out the window. The lights of Paris were appearing below. The Eiffel Tower sparkled.

He was Alex Finch. He was a kid from London.

And he was landing in Paris as the favorite for the Golden Boy.

The gala was like a dream.

Red carpet. Flashing lights. People shouting his name.

"Alex! Alex! Over here!"

Alex walked the carpet. He was wearing the midnight blue velvet suit. It fit perfectly. He felt... cool.

Mark was next to him. Mark was wearing a silver suit that matched his boots. He was waving at everyone. He was signing autographs for people who did not even ask for them.

"I am the Arrow!" Mark told a confused French security guard.

They walked into the theater. It was full of legends.

Zidane. Messi. Ronaldinho.

Alex felt his legs go weak. These were the gods of his old life.

He sat at a table with his team. Jude looked amazing in a black tuxedo. Antoine wore white.

The ceremony began.

They gave out awards for best goalkeeper, best goal.

Then... the big one.

"The Golden Boy," the presenter said. "For the best player under the age of twenty one."

The screen showed the nominees.

Gavi. Barcelona.

Musiala. Bayern Munich.

Bellingham. Arsenal.

Finch. Arsenal.

Alex held his breath. He felt Jude squeeze his shoulder.

"And the winner is..."

The presenter opened the envelope.

He smiled.

"The Professor. Alex Finch."

The room exploded with applause.

Alex froze. He could not move.

Mark jumped up. He screamed. "YES! THAT IS MY PARTNER! THAT IS MY BRAIN!"

Jude pushed him. "Go, Alex. Go get it."

Alex stood up. His legs were shaking.

He walked to the stage. He took the golden trophy. It was heavy. He looked out at the sea of faces.

He saw Messi smiling at him. He saw Mbappe nodding.

He took the microphone.

"I... I do not have a speech," Alex stammered.

The crowd laughed kindly.

"I am just... I am just a kid who likes data," Alex said. "I like puzzles. And football... is the best puzzle in the world."

He looked at his table.

"But you cannot solve a puzzle alone. I have the best pieces."

He pointed at Jude. "I have Power."

He pointed at Antoine. "I have Magic."

He pointed at Mark. "And I have... Chaos."

Mark stood up and bowed. The crowd cheered.

"This is for them," Alex said. "And for my mum and dad. Thank you."

He walked off stage.

He was the Golden Boy.

He went back to the table. Mark grabbed the trophy.

"It is shiny," Mark whispered. "Can I hold it? Just for a second?"

"Careful," Alex said.

Mark held it up. He looked at his reflection in the gold.

"We need to win one for me," Mark said seriously. "The Golden Arrow. Is that a thing?"

"We will make it a thing," Alex promised.

The after party was on a boat on the Seine river.

The Eiffel Tower was glittering in the background.

Alex stood at the railing, holding his trophy.

Antoine walked over.

"You did well, Professor," Antoine said. "Good speech. Short. Humble. Very English."

"Thanks, Antoine."

"But now," Antoine said, looking at the water. "The hard part starts."

"The hard part?"

"You have the trophy," Antoine said. "Now... everyone wants to take it. You are the target. The King is dead. Long live the King."

Alex looked at the gold ball in his hands.

He thought about the muddy pitch at Luton. He thought about the training sessions. He thought about the data.

"Let them come," Alex said softly.

"I am stable. I am ready."

Mark ran over. He had a plate of tiny cakes.

"Professor! Look! Tiny cakes! They are the size of my thumb! Paris is amazing!"

Alex laughed.

He looked at his friends. He looked at the city.

He was the Golden Boy.

But tomorrow, he was just Alex again.

And he had a geography test on Thursday.

He took a tiny cake.

"Yeah," Alex said. "Paris is amazing."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.