Alex stood in his bedroom. It was quiet.

He looked at the trophies on his shelf.

The Golden Boy. The Champions League medal.

The Premier League medal. (They had won it. On the last day. It was stressful. Mark had cried.)

And now... the World Cup was coming.

He was eighteen. He was not a kid anymore.

He packed his bag.

His mum walked in. She was holding a new shirt. An England shirt.

But this one was different. It didn't have "26" on the back.

It had "8".

The midfield general's number.

"You look grown up," his mum said, her eyes misty.

"I am still me, mum," Alex smiled. "Just... with better boots."

His dad walked in. He was holding a passport.

"Qatar," his dad said. "It is hot. Drink water."

"I will, dad."

"And... bring it home," his dad said, his voice thick. "Bring it home, son."

The flight to Qatar was long.

Alex sat next to Jude Bellingham. They were the engine of England now.

"Ready, Professor?" Jude asked. He was wearing noise-canceling headphones.

"Ready," Alex said.

He looked across the aisle. Mark was there. He had made the squad. The "Chaos Option".

Mark was asleep. He was drooling a little. He was clutching a new pair of boots. Gold boots.

"He is peaceful when he sleeps," Jude said.

"Wait until he wakes up," Alex laughed.

The World Cup. The biggest stage of all.

England cruised through the group stage. Alex was the conductor. Jude was the power. Mark came off the bench and caused havoc.

They beat Senegal in the Round of 16.

They beat Germany in the Quarter Finals (again). Bastian sent Alex a text: "Stop beating my country. It is rude."

Now... the Semi-Final.

Against Brazil.

The favorites. The magicians. The team Alex had watched on YouTube for hours in his old life.

Vinicius Jr. Neymar. Rodrygo.

"They are fast," Mark said, watching them warm up. "Faster than me?"

"Nobody is faster than you, Speed," Alex said. "But they are... trickier."

The game was a carnival.

Brazil played with joy. They danced. They flicked.

Vinicius Jr. ran at Alex. He did a rainbow flick.

The crowd gasped.

Alex didn't gasp. He just... stood still.

The ball hit his chest. He controlled it.

"Nice trick," Alex said to Vinicius. "But the ball is mine."

Vinicius laughed. "You are boring, Professor."

"Winning is boring," Alex said.

He passed to Jude.

Jude drove. He passed to Harry Kane.

Kane scored.

One zero.

Brazil equalized. Neymar scored a free kick.

One one.

Extra time.

The heat was unbearable. Players were cramping.

Alex was tired. But his brain was clear.

115th minute.

Brazil had a corner. They committed men forward.

Alex saw it. The trap.

He stood on the edge of the box.

The ball was cleared.

It came to Alex.

He didn't clear it. He controlled it.

He looked up.

Mark was running. The Arrow.

He was fresh. He had just come on.

Alex hit the pass. The Hurricane pass.

Mark ran. He was alone.

He rounded the keeper.

He scored.

Two one.

England were in the World Cup Final.

The Final.

Against France.

Again.

Mbappe vs The Hurricane. Round Two.

The stadium was gold. The world was watching.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

Antoine was there. He was the French captain now.

"Professor," Antoine said. "We meet again."

"Magician," Alex nodded.

"No tricks today," Antoine said. "Just war."

"I like war," Alex said.

The game was tight. Tense.

Mbappe scored. One zero.

Kane scored. One one.

It went to penalties.

The most terrifying thing in football.

Alex was the fifth taker. The last one.

If he scored... England won.

If he missed... they lost.

He walked to the spot. The walk felt like miles.

The stadium was silent.

He put the ball down.

He looked at the keeper. Lloris.

He remembered the training. The data.

Lloris liked to dive early. To the right.

Alex took a deep breath.

Be stable. Be the rock.

He ran up.

He didn't smash it. He didn't chip it.

He waited.

Lloris moved. Right.

Alex rolled the ball. Left.

It hit the net.

GOAL.

Alex turned.

The England team was running at him.

He had done it.

He was a World Champion.

He fell to his knees. He cried.

Mark jumped on him. Jude jumped on him.

"THE PROFESSOR!" they screamed. "THE KING OF THE WORLD!"

The celebrations were a blur.

Alex stood on the pitch. Confetti falling like snow.

He held the trophy. The golden globe.

He looked at his friends. Mark. Jude. Harry.

He looked at the crowd.

He saw his mum and dad. They were waving an Arsenal flag.

He saw Milo. Milo was wearing a suit made of... actual mirrors. He was blinding everyone.

Alex smiled.

He was eighteen.

He had lived two lives. One was quiet. lonely. Regretful.

This one... this one was loud. Crazy. Perfect.

He looked at the trophy. He saw his reflection.

He wasn't the old analyst anymore.

He was Alex Finch. The Wonderkid. The Professor. The Champion.

"Hey!" Mark yelled, running over with a camera. "Smile, Professor! You are a legend!"

Alex smiled.

"I am just getting started," he said.

And he ran to join his team. The Hurricane had conquered the world.

And the forecast was... sunny. Very, very sunny.

***

"Do not drop milk on the trophy, Alex," his mum said, pouring tea. "It is very hard to clean gold."

"I am careful, mum," Alex said.

His dad walked in. He was wearing his bathrobe. He stopped. He looked at the trophy. He looked at Alex. He shook his head.

"It is still there," his dad whispered. "I thought I dreamt it."

"It is real, dad," Alex smiled.

"You are a World Champion," his dad said, sitting down. "You are eighteen years old. You have completed football. What are you going to do today?"

Alex swallowed a spoonful of cereal.

"I have to take the bins out," Alex said. "It is Tuesday."

His dad laughed. "The World Champion taking out the rubbish. This keeps you humble, son."

"Milo wanted to hire a 'Trash Butler'," Alex said. "I told him no."

"Good," his mum said. "Now go. The bin lorry is coming."

Alex walked down the driveway, dragging the black bin bags.

It was raining on his face. He was wearing his slippers.

A car drove past. It slowed down. The driver leaned out.

"OI! IS THAT THE PROFESSOR?"

Alex waved. "Morning!"

"YOU'RE A LEGEND, MATE! A LEGEND!"

The driver honked and drove off.

Alex smiled. He put the bins on the curb.

He was a legend. And his slippers were wet.

Life was weird.

A familiar sound tore through the quiet morning air.

It sounded like a jet engine mixed with a techno concert.

Mark's car.

But it wasn't the green car. It wasn't the black SUV.

A bright, metallic, purple sports car screeched to a halt in front of Alex's house. The doors opened upwards like wings.

Mark stepped out.

He was wearing a purple tracksuit that matched the car. He had gold sunglasses on. He was holding a boombox on his shoulder.

"WORLD CHAMPIONS IN THE HOUSE!" Mark screamed. The music was deafening.

"Mark," Alex said. "It is eight in the morning. My neighbors are sleeping."

"THEY SHOULD BE AWAKE!" Mark yelled over the bass. "THEY ARE LIVING NEXT TO ROYALTY!"

He ran over and hugged Alex. He smelled of expensive cologne and triumph.

"We did it, Professor! We actually did it!"

"We did," Alex said, patting Mark's purple back. "Nice car."

"It is the 'Royal Edition'!" Mark beamed. "Milo got it for me. He says purple is the color of kings. Get in. We are going to training. The King needs his chariot."

"I have to change my shoes," Alex said. "I am wearing slippers."

"Slippers are cool!" Mark shouted. "We set the trends now! Wear the slippers!"

Alex went inside to change. He put on his new training shoes. They were white, with a small gold star on the heel.

A gift from the boot company.

He grabbed his bag. He looked at the trophy one last time.

"See you later, gold guy," he whispered.

The drive to the training ground was... fast.

Mark drove like he played. Erratic, speedy, and slightly terrifying.

"So," Mark yelled over the music. "What happens now? We won the League. We won the Champions League. We won the World Cup. Is there... is there a Universe Cup? Can we play against Martians?"

"I think we just... play the Premier League again," Alex said.

Mark looked disappointed. "Again? But we already beat them."

"We have to beat them twice," Alex said. "To prove it wasn't an accident."

"It was not an accident!" Mark said, offended. "It was pure skill! And chaos!"

They arrived at the Arsenal training ground.

The security gate was decorated with balloons. Red, white, and gold balloons.

The guard saluted them.

They walked into the locker room.

It was full.

Jude was there. He was doing pull-ups on the doorframe. Shirtless.

"100... 101..." Jude grunted.

"Show off," Mark muttered.

Antoine was there. He was looking in the mirror, fixing his hair.

"Ah, the conquerors return," Antoine said, turning around. He smiled. It was a genuine, warm smile.

"Congratulations, boys," Antoine said. "You beat my country. You broke my heart. But... I am happy for you. Really."

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