"Mr. Finch?"

Alex looked up. "Yes, sir?"

"You are oscillating," Mr. Harrison said. "You are tapping your foot. You are shaking the table."

"Sorry, sir," Alex said. "I am just... calculating."

"Calculating what?"

"The force required to stop a tank," Alex said. "His name is Romero."

The class laughed. But Alex wasn't joking.

He walked out of school.

Maya was waiting by the gate. She was wearing a scarf. It was red and white.

"You are wearing colors," Alex smiled.

"It is a statistical anomaly," Maya said, adjusting her glasses. "I usually prefer neutral tones. But... the data suggests that morale support increases performance by 5 percent."

"I need the 5 percent," Alex said.

"Here," Maya said. She handed him a small, plastic object.

It was a protractor. A tool for measuring angles.

"For the perfect pass," she said.

Alex took it. He put it in his pocket.

"Thanks, Maya. I will measure everything."

"Just win, Professor," she said. "I don't want you moving to Manchester. The rainfall data there is depressing."

Alex laughed. "I am staying right here."

The black SUV pulled up.

Mark was driving. He was wearing... a full knight's helmet. With a visor.

"Get in, Sir Alex!" Mark yelled through the metal. "We ride to war!"

Alex climbed in. "Mark. You cannot see."

"I use the force!" Mark shouted. He lifted the visor. He looked terrified.

"I am scared, Alex," Mark whispered. "If we lose... I lose you. I lose Jude. I lose Antoine. I don't want to play with strangers."

"We won't lose," Alex said. He touched the protractor in his pocket. "We have the angles."

The training ground was silent.

It was Friday. The day before the game.

The Suit was there.

He was standing on the sideline. He was wearing a black trench coat. He looked like the Grim Reaper.

Steve, the manager, gathered the team.

"Tomorrow," Steve said. "We go to the enemy's house."

He looked at the Diamond. Alex. Jude. Antoine. Mark.

"They know why we are coming. They know about the contract. They know that if they beat us... they destroy Arsenal."

He paused.

"They will not play football. They will play hate."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Romero is their defender. He is aggressive. He is violent. He will try to break you."

"I am stable," Alex said.

"Stability is not enough," Steve said. "You must be... slippery. You must be water. If he tries to hit you... do not be there."

He looked at Jude.

"Power. You are the hammer. When Alex moves... you hit. You break the line."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. You are the dagger. You wait. You wait for the blood."

"I like daggers," Mark said, his voice shaking a little.

Saturday. The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

It was a giant, white bowl of noise.

Sixty-two thousand fans. And they were all screaming one thing.

"SELL THEM! SELL THEM! SELL THEM!"

They knew. The whole world knew.

Alex stood in the tunnel. He was wearing the red and white. Number 8.

He looked at the Spurs players.

Son Heung-min, the captain, looked focused.

Romero, the defender, looked crazy. He was staring at Alex's ankles like they were snacks.

"He is hungry," Jude whispered, standing next to Alex.

"He will choke," Alex said.

They walked out. The noise was a physical wave.

Alex looked up. The sky was grey. It was perfect derby weather.

The whistle blew.

The game was fast. Too fast.

Tottenham started like a train on fire.

They pressed high. They tackled hard.

In the 5th minute, Romero smashed into Jude.

CRUNCH.

Jude didn't fall. He stumbled. But he kept the ball.

"Is that all?" Jude roared.

But Tottenham were good. They were motivated.

In the 15th minute, Son got the ball. He cut inside.

He curled a shot.

It flew past Ramsdale.

GOAL.

One zero. Tottenham.

The stadium erupted. The noise was deafening. "GOODBYE ARSENAL! GOODBYE!"

Alex stood in the center circle. He looked at the Suit in the directors' box. The Suit was on his phone. Probably calling Manchester City.

Alex felt a hand on his shoulder.

It was Antoine.

"Professor," Antoine said. His voice was calm. "The data. What does it say?"

Alex closed his eyes. He analyzed.

Tottenham were aggressive. Romero was chasing the ball. He was leaving his position to try and kill the play.

"He is greedy," Alex said. "Romero. He wants to win the ball every time."

"So?" Antoine asked.

"So... we feed him," Alex said.

"Feed him?"

"We give him the ball," Alex said. "Or... we make him think we are giving him the ball."

The game restarted.

Alex changed the plan.

He didn't pass away from Romero. He passed towards him.

He played short passes to Jude. Right in front of Romero.

Romero saw the ball. He charged.

Jude used his strength. He held him off. He passed it back to Alex.

They did it again.

Pass to Jude. Romero charges. Pass back to Alex.

Romero was getting angry. He wanted the ball. He wanted the tackle.

35th minute.

Alex got the ball. He looked at Jude.

Romero saw the look. He started to run. He was going to intercept the pass to Jude.

Alex swung his leg.

But he didn't pass to Jude.

He did the "No Look".

He reversed his foot. He played a through ball... down the line.

Mark was there.

The Arrow.

Romero was out of position. He had chased the bait.

Mark was free.

He sprinted. He was one on one with the keeper.

Mark didn't shoot. He saw Antoine.

Antoine had run into the box.

Mark squared it.

Antoine tapped it in.

GOAL!

One one.

The Arsenal fans in the corner went wild.

Antoine ran to Alex. "You fed him!" Antoine laughed. "And he choked!"

Alex smiled. The trap was working.

Halftime. One one.

"Keep doing it," Steve said in the locker room. "Romero is losing his mind. He is angry. An angry defender makes mistakes."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. You are playing well. But you are too wide. Come inside. Be the second striker."

"But Romero is in the middle," Mark said.

"Exactly," Steve said. "Alex will move him. You fill the space."

Second half.

The tension was unbearable.

One goal. One goal to decide the future of the team.

Tottenham pushed. They hit the post. Ramsdale made a save with his face.

Arsenal held on.

75th minute.

The game was stretched. Players were tired.

Alex got the ball deep.

Romero was waiting. He was breathing hard. He looked like a bull ready to charge.

Alex looked at Jude.

Romero took a step.

Alex looked at Mark.

Romero hesitated.

Alex didn't pass.

He dribbled.

He ran straight at Romero.

It was the last thing Romero expected. The Professor never dribbled.

Romero planted his feet. He got ready to smash Alex.

Alex waited until the last second.

He remembered the plastic pitch in Switzerland. The friction.

He remembered the physics.

Momentum.

Alex stopped. Dead.

Romero couldn't stop. His momentum carried him forward. He lunged.

Alex just... hopped.

He hopped over Romero's leg.

He was past him.

The pitch opened up.

Alex ran.

He saw Jude. Jude was making a power run into the box.

He saw Mark. Mark was making a chaotic run to the far post.

He saw Antoine. Antoine was standing on the penalty spot.

Alex had three options.

He chose the fourth option.

He saw the top corner of the goal.

He was twenty yards out.

He remembered the protractor. The angles.

He hit it.

He curled it.

The ball arced. It went around the defender. It went away from the keeper.

It hit the "postage stamp". The very top corner.

GOAL.

Two one. Arsenal.

Alex ran. He didn't know where he was going. He just ran.

He slid on his knees.

He pointed at his head. The Brain.

Then he pointed at the ground. Here. We stay here.

The team piled on him.

"YOU STAY!" Mark screamed, crying and laughing. "YOU ARE NOT GOING TO MANCHESTER!"

"I AM STAYING!" Alex yelled back.

The last ten minutes were eternity.

Tottenham threw everything. The kitchen sink. The goalkeeper.

Alex was the Shield. He blocked a shot with his thigh. He headed a cross away.

He was exhausted.

The whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Tottenham 1.

They had done it.

They had survived the month.

Alex fell to the ground. He looked at the grey sky. It looked beautiful.

The Suit walked onto the pitch.

He walked over to Alex.

The team stood up. They formed a wall around Alex. Jude, Mark, Antoine, Bastian. They protected him.

The Suit looked at them. He looked at the scoreboard.

He sighed.

He opened his briefcase.

He took out a contract. The Manchester City transfer agreement.

He took out a lighter.

He lit the corner of the paper.

He dropped it on the grass.

They watched it burn.

"Congratulations," the Suit said. "You are expensive. But... you are worth it."

He walked away.

Mark stomped on the ashes. "GOODBYE!"

Jude picked Alex up. "We are safe, Professor. We are safe."

Alex smiled. He was tired. He was sore.

But he was an Arsenal player.

Milo ran onto the pitch. He was wearing a suit made of... fireworks?

"THE FIRE!" Milo screamed. "THE PASSION! I AM SELLING THE ASHES! 'THE CONTRACT COLLECTION'!"

"Milo, no," Alex laughed.

"Milo, YES!"

Alex walked to the fans. He clapped.

He saw Maya in the stands. She was waving her notebook.

He saw his mum and dad.

He was eighteen.

He had saved his team. He had saved his family.

He walked into the tunnel.

"So," Antoine said, putting his arm around Alex. "What now, Professor? We have won everything. We are safe. What is left?"

Alex thought about it.

He thought about the future.

"Now?" Alex said. "Now... we build a dynasty."

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.