"Calculate the trajectory of a ball kicked at a 45-degree angle with a velocity of 30 meters per second, accounting for air resistance."

Alex smiled. He didn't need a calculator. He needed his right foot. Or Mark's right foot.

He wrote down the answer. He checked his watch.

He was eighteen. He was a World Champion. And he was worried about getting a B in Physics.

"Pens down," the invigilator called out.

Alex dropped his pen. He let out a long breath.

It was over. School was done.

He walked out of the hall. He felt lighter. The backpack on his shoulders felt empty.

He walked to the school gates.

There was a noise. A very loud, very deep rumble.

It sounded like a tank.

It was a tank. Or close enough.

A giant, matte-black, six-wheeled military truck was parked on the yellow lines. It was bigger than the school bus.

The window rolled down.

Mark was sitting in the driver's seat. He was wearing a camouflage tracksuit. He had painted black stripes under his eyes.

"GET IN, SOLDIER!" Mark screamed.

Every student in the school stopped and stared.

"Mark," Alex sighed, walking over. "What is this?"

"It is the 'War Machine'!" Mark yelled, patting the dashboard. "Milo rented it! He says the Premier League is a battlefield! We need armor!"

"It is a truck, Mark. A very wide truck."

"It has a fridge!" Mark said. "And a button that makes a horn sound like a lion! Listen!"

He pressed a button. ROOOOAAAR.

The school principal dropped his clipboard.

"Just drive," Alex said, climbing up into the passenger seat. It was so high he almost needed a ladder.

They arrived at the Emirates Stadium.

It was the first day of the new Premier League season.

The sun was shining. The grass was perfect. The fans were wearing the new shirts with the gold "Champions" badge on the sleeve.

Alex walked into the locker room.

It felt different this year.

Last year, it was exciting. It was new.

This year, it felt... heavy.

Expectation hung in the air like humidity.

Bastian was there. He was not reading. He was taping his knees. He used almost an entire roll of tape.

"Professor," Bastian grunted. "School is out?"

"Forever," Alex said.

"Good," Bastian said. "Now you can focus on the important things. Like not losing."

Antoine was there. He was looking at his reflection in the trophy cabinet glass.

"Mirror, mirror," Antoine whispered. "Who is the most beautiful champion?"

"It is Jude," Jude said, walking in. He flexed his bicep. "Definitely me."

Jude looked at Alex.

"Ready, Professor? The honeymoon is over. Now... the marriage begins."

"That is a weird metaphor, Jude," Alex laughed.

"It means we have to do the dishes," Jude grinned. "And take out the trash."

Steve, the manager, walked in.

He looked intense.

"Chelsea," Steve said. "Opening day. At home."

He looked at the team.

"They have spent three hundred million in the summer. They bought a new striker. They bought a new midfield. They bought a new defense."

He paused.

"They think they can buy a soul. They think they can buy a Hurricane."

He looked at Alex, Antoine, Mark, and Jude.

"Show them... that some things cannot be bought."

He pointed to the board.

"They will press. They will run. They are young and hungry. They want to be us."

"They will never be us," Mark whispered.

"Prove it," Steve said. "Go."

The tunnel was hot.

Alex stood next to the Chelsea captain, Reece James.

Reece looked strong. He looked ready.

"Nice trophy cabinet, Alex," Reece said. "But it's a new season. Zero points."

"Zero points for everyone," Alex agreed.

They walked out. The roar was deafening.

NORTH LONDON FOREVER.

The song echoed around the stadium. Alex felt the hairs on his arms stand up.

He looked at Mark. Mark was doing a little hop-skip. He was ready to explode.

He looked at Antoine. Antoine was adjusting his headband. He was calm.

He looked at Jude. Jude was staring at the Chelsea midfield like a lion stares at a gazelle.

The whistle blew.

Chelsea did not park the bus. They drove the bus at 100 miles per hour straight at Arsenal.

They pressed high. They tackled hard.

Caicedo and Enzo, the Chelsea midfielders, were everywhere. They were trying to suffocate Alex.

Alex got the ball. Caicedo smashed into him.

Alex stumbled. He kept the ball.

He passed to Jude. Enzo smashed into Jude.

Jude didn't stumble. He just pushed back.

It was a physical battle.

The first twenty minutes were messy. No rhythm. Just fights.

Mark was getting annoyed. He wanted to run, but the Chelsea defense was playing a high line, compressing the space.

"They are squashing the pitch!" Mark yelled.

"Stretch them!" Alex shouted.

In the 30th minute, Chelsea scored.

A mistake. A slip.

Their new striker ran through. He finished well.

One zero. Chelsea.

The away fans went wild. "CHAMPIONS? YOU'RE HAVING A LAUGH!"

Alex stood in the center circle.

He closed his eyes.

Analyze.

Chelsea was aggressive. They were condensing the midfield. They were trying to stop the "Brain" and the "Power" by crowding the center.

But... by crowding the center... they were leaving the sides open.

Not the wings. The channels. The half-spaces.

Alex opened his eyes.

He walked over to Antoine.

"Magician," Alex said. "Go wide. But not to the line. Stand... in the pocket. Between the fullback and the center back."

"The half-space?" Antoine asked.

"Yes. Stand there. Do not move. Make them decide."

Alex looked at Jude.

"Jude. You too. Go to the other side. Leave the middle empty."

"Empty?" Jude asked. "But you will be alone."

"Yes," Alex said. "I will be the bait."

The game restarted.

Antoine went right. Jude went left.

The middle of the pitch was now just Alex... and two Chelsea midfielders.

Caicedo and Enzo looked at Alex. They looked at each other. They licked their lips.

Two against one.

They pressed him.

Alex got the ball from Bastian.

He stood still. He invited them.

They came. Both of them.

Alex waited until they were two yards away.

Then, he did a simple body feint. He dropped his shoulder.

He didn't pass forward. He didn't dribble.

He hit a reverse pass. Blind.

Through the gap between the two rushing midfielders.

The ball rolled into the empty space behind them.

Who was there?

Harry Kane.

The striker had dropped deep. Into the space Alex had vacated.

Harry turned.

He had time.

He saw Antoine in the half-space.

He passed.

Antoine turned. The Chelsea defense was stretched. They didn't know who to cover.

Antoine saw Mark.

Mark was making the diagonal run. The "Arrow" run.

Antoine clipped a pass.

Mark volleyed it.

BOOM.

Goal.

One one.

Mark ran to the corner. He pointed at Alex.

"THE BAIT!" Mark screamed. "HE WAS THE JUICY WORM!"

"Please don't call me a worm," Alex laughed, hugging him.

The game was level. But Arsenal wanted more.

Second half.

Chelsea was tired. Chasing Alex was exhausting.

Alex started to dominate. He moved the ball. Zip. Zip.

He was the metronome.

75th minute.

Alex had the ball. He was thirty yards out.

The Chelsea defense backed off. They were scared of the pass to Mark.

They backed off too far.

Alex looked at the goal.

He remembered the goal against Milan. The Knuckleball.

He remembered the goal against Brighton. The Sledgehammer.

He decided to try something new.

He didn't shoot with power. He didn't curl it.

He chipped it.

Not a pass. A shot.

He saw the keeper was slightly off his line.

Alex dinked the ball.

It floated. It looked like it was moving in slow motion.

The keeper backpedaled. He jumped.

The ball went over his fingertips.

It dipped.

And landed softly in the net.

GOAL.

Two one.

The stadium gasped. It was audacious. It was disrespectful. It was genius.

Alex just stood there. He shrugged.

Antoine ran over. He bowed.

"Professor," Antoine said. "That was... art."

"It was geometry," Alex smiled.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Chelsea 1.

The Champions had started with a win.

Alex walked off the pitch. He was tired, but happy.

Milo was waiting in the tunnel.

He was wearing... a crown. A plastic, gold crown. And a cape.

"THE KING!" Milo screamed. "THE KING OF NORTH LONDON! ALEX! THE CHIP! I AM CALLING IT 'THE TEASPOON'! WE WILL SELL SILVERWARE!"

"Milo," Alex said. "No spoons."

"FINE! BUT THE CAPE! WEAR THE CAPE!"

Milo tried to put the cape on Alex.

"No cape," Bastian said, walking past and pulling the cape off Milo. "He is a footballer. Not Batman."

"Batman is rich!" Milo argued.

Alex walked into the locker room.

Mark was there. He was taking a selfie with his boot.

"Good game, partner," Mark said. "You were... adequate."

"You were fast," Alex said.

"I know," Mark grinned.

Steve walked in. He looked at them.

"Three points," Steve said. "Thirty-seven games to go."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You passed the exam. But... next week... we have Liverpool. Away. At Anfield. Again."

The room groaned.

"No rest," Jude said, eating an orange. "I love it."

Alex sat at his locker.

He looked at his phone.

A text from his mum.

"I saw the goal! Very gentle. Like you were putting a baby to sleep. Also, don't forget to take the bins out when you get home. You forgot this morning."

Alex laughed.

He was a World Champion. He was a Premier League winner. He was the King of London.

And he still had chores.

He packed his bag. He put his black boots away.

He walked out to the car park.

The "War Machine" truck was waiting. Mark was honking the lion horn.

Alex climbed up.

"To Anfield?" Mark asked, grinning.

"Home first," Alex said. "I have to take out the trash."

"Then Anfield," Mark said. "We have a title to defend."

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