"I have... time," Alex whispered. "I have so much time. I don't know what to do with it."

"You could learn pottery," his dad suggested. "Or knitting."

"I am a footballer, dad. I cannot knit."

"Not with that attitude," his dad grinned.

A horn honked outside. A loud, aggressive, musical horn.

It played the tune of The Godfather.

Alex sighed. He knew who it was.

He walked to the window.

Parked in the driveway was a... hearse.

A long, black, gothic hearse.

Milo was leaning against it. He was wearing a suit made of black leather. He looked like a vampire who managed a boy band.

Mark was sitting on the roof of the hearse. He was wearing a black cape.

"GET IN, PROFESSOR!" Mark screamed. "WE ARE GOING TO A FUNERAL!"

Alex opened the window. "Who died?"

"NO ONE!" Milo yelled up. "BUT ATLETICO MADRID WILL DIE TOMORROW! IT IS PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE! WE ARE THE UNDERTAKERS!"

"Milo," Alex said. "I am not riding in a hearse."

"It has a PlayStation in the back!" Mark shouted. "And a fridge full of juice!"

Alex closed the window. He looked at his dad.

"I miss school," Alex said.

"Go," his dad laughed. "Don't be late for the funeral."

The training ground was buzzing with nervous energy.

Arsenal were the Champions of Europe. But tomorrow, they started their title defense.

Matchday One. Group Stage.

Atletico Madrid. Away.

The Wanda Metropolitano stadium.

Steve, the manager, stood in the video room. The lights were off. The screen showed a team in red and white stripes.

They were tackling. They were shoving. They were surrounding the referee.

"Atletico," Steve said. His voice was grim. "The 'Dark Arts'."

He looked at the team.

"They do not play football. They play... pain. They want to make you angry. They want you to fight them. If you fight... you lose."

He pointed at Jude.

"Power. They will kick you. They will pinch you. Do not react. If you get a red card, Simeone wins."

Jude cracked his knuckles. "I will just smile. It scares them more."

He pointed at Mark.

"Speed. They will not give you space. They sit deep. They are a turtle in a shell. A very angry turtle."

"I hate turtles," Mark muttered.

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. This is your test. You have to be the ice. When they bring fire... you bring ice. Control the temper. Control the game."

Alex nodded. Ice.

The flight to Madrid was quiet.

Alex sat next to Antoine.

Antoine was reading a fashion magazine. He looked relaxed.

"You know them, Antoine?" Alex asked. "You played in Spain."

"I know them," Antoine said, not looking up. "They are... annoying. They are like a mosquito in your ear. But they are dangerous. Griezmann... he is clever. Oblak... he is a wall."

He looked at Alex.

"Do not let them get inside your head, Professor. They talk. They say bad things about your haircut. About your boots."

"My boots are white," Alex said. "They are nice."

"They are very nice," Antoine smiled. "Just... ignore the noise."

Wednesday night. Madrid.

The Metropolitano was a cauldron. Sixty-eight thousand fans screaming.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

The Atletico players were staring at them. They weren't looking at their eyes. They were looking at their shins. Like they were deciding where to kick.

Their captain, Koke, looked at Alex.

"Champion," Koke sneered. "You look soft."

Alex didn't blink. "I am stable."

Koke laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh.

They walked out. The noise was hostile. Whistles. Boos.

The whistle blew.

The game was a nightmare.

Atletico didn't press. They sat back. Two lines of four. A solid, impenetrable block.

Arsenal had the ball.

Alex passed to Jude. Jude was immediately hit by two players.

Thud.

Jude stayed up. He passed back to Alex.

Alex looked for Mark. Mark was surrounded.

It was suffocating.

And then, the "Dark Arts" began.

In the 15th minute, Antoine did a trick. An Atletico defender, Savic, stepped on his foot.

Antoine went down.

Savic leaned over him. "Get up, princess," he whispered loudly.

Antoine jumped up, angry. "Do not touch me!"

The referee ran over. He gave Antoine a yellow card for arguing.

"See?" Steve yelled from the sideline. "THE TRAP! DO NOT FALL FOR IT!"

Alex ran over to Antoine. He grabbed his arm.

"Calm," Alex whispered. "Ice. Be ice."

Antoine took a deep breath. "He stepped on my toe. My favorite toe."

"We will get them back," Alex promised. "With the ball."

But getting them back was hard.

Atletico defended with their lives. They celebrated every clearance like a goal.

In the 40th minute, disaster struck.

Alex tried a switch pass. It was intercepted by Griezmann.

Griezmann ran. He was fast.

He played a ball to Morata.

Morata shot.

Ramsdale saved it... but the rebound fell to Griezmann.

Goal.

One zero. Atletico.

The stadium exploded.

Simeone, the Atletico manager, was running down the touchline like a maniac. He was pumping his fists. He was screaming.

Alex stood in the center circle. He felt the weight of the Champions badge on his sleeve.

"They are winning," Mark said, walking over. He looked frustrated. "They are parking the bus. The hearse was a bad omen."

"It is not over," Alex said.

"They won't come out," Mark said. "They will just sit there. For fifty minutes. It is impossible."

Alex looked at the Atletico formation. Tight. Narrow. Compact.

"Nothing is impossible," Alex said. "It is just... a puzzle."

Halftime. One zero.

The locker room was hot and angry.

"They are kicking me!" Mark shouted, showing a bruise on his leg. "Look! It is the shape of a stud!"

"Ignore it," Steve said calmly. "Pain is temporary. Losing is forever."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. They are blocking the middle. They know you want to pass through them. We need a new angle."

Alex closed his eyes. He visualized the block.

It was a square. Four midfielders. Four defenders.

If you went through the middle, you died.

If you went wide... they just headed the cross away. They were tall.

"We need to move them," Alex said.

"How?" Jude asked. "They are statues."

"We need... to make them greedy," Alex said.

He opened his eyes.

"The 'False Mistake'," Alex said.

"False Mistake?" Antoine asked.

"We give them the ball," Alex said.

The room went silent.

"What?" Mark said. "Are you crazy?"

"We give them the ball," Alex explained. "In our own half. We make a 'bad' pass. We invite them to press. When they see the ball... they will get hungry. They will step out. They will break the shape."

"And then?" Steve asked.

"And then," Alex said, "we steal it back. Instantly. And we run into the space they left."

"It is risky," Jude said.

"It is high probability," Alex corrected. "They are arrogant now. They think they have won. They will bite."

Steve smiled. "The Trap. I like it. Who makes the mistake?"

"Me," Alex said. "I am the Professor. They think I am smart. If I make a mistake... they will believe it."

Second half.

The game restarted.

Atletico sat back. They were happy. One zero.

55th minute.

Alex got the ball near the center circle.

He looked at Koke.

Alex hesitated. He looked nervous. He took a heavy touch.

Koke saw it. His eyes lit up. The kid is cracking.

Koke sprinted. He left his position. He came to steal the ball.

Behind him, De Paul, the other midfielder, also stepped up. They wanted the kill.

Alex waited.

Koke was two yards away.

Alex passed the ball.

It was a weak, bobbly pass towards Bastian.

Koke intercepted it.

"YES!" Koke yelled.

He took the ball. He looked up to counter.

But he didn't see Jude.

Jude was the trap.

Jude slammed into Koke.

CRUNCH

It was a fair tackle. Shoulder to shoulder. Power.

Koke went flying.

Jude won the ball.

Now... the Atletico midfield was gone. Koke was on the floor. De Paul was out of position.

The block was broken.

"GO!" Alex screamed.

He sprinted past the fallen Koke.

Jude passed to Alex.

Alex was running at the defense. Four against three.

He saw Mark.

Mark was the Arrow. He saw the gap.

Alex didn't pass to Mark. That was too obvious.

He passed to Antoine.

Antoine was on the edge of the box.

The defenders collapsed on Antoine.

Antoine didn't shoot. He did the "No Look".

He backheeled it.

To Mark.

Mark was free.

He didn't need to dribble. He didn't need to think.

He smashed it.

The ball flew into the top corner.

GOAL!

One one.

Mark ran to the corner. He did a new celebration.

He pretended to dig a hole. Then he pretended to pull something out. A diamond. He held it up to the sky.

"WE DUG DEEP!" Mark yelled.

Alex ran over. "The False Mistake!" Alex laughed. "They bit!"

Atletico was furious. They had been tricked.

The game became violent.

Yellow cards flew like confetti.

Savic kicked Jude. Yellow.

Griezmann pushed Mark. Yellow.

85th minute. One one.

A draw would be okay. But Arsenal were Champions. They wanted to win.

Alex was tired. But his mind was clear.

Atletico was rattled. They were arguing with each other. The discipline was gone.

Alex got the ball.

He saw Jude making a run. A 'Power' run.

But the Atletico defense was tracking him.

Alex looked left.

He saw... nobody.

Just space.

But he knew someone would be there.

He hit a diagonal pass. Blind. Into the empty space on the left wing.

It looked like a bad pass.

But then... a blur of movement.

It wasn't a winger. It wasn't a striker.

It was Bastian.

The giant German defender had run forward. The 'Beckenbauer' run.

No one had tracked him. Why would they track a center back?

Bastian caught the ball. He was on the wing.

He looked like a tank trying to be a Ferrari.

He crossed.

It wasn't a delicate cross. It was a hammer blow.

The ball flew across the box.

Antoine jumped. He missed it.

The defender missed it.

The ball fell to the back post.

To Alex.

Alex had continued his run. He was the box-to-box engine.

He was there.

The angle was tight. The keeper was huge.

Alex didn't have time to control it.

He threw himself at the ball. A diving header.

He connected.

THUD.

The ball hit his forehead. It flew past the keeper's ear.

It hit the net.

GOAL.

Two one. Arsenal.

In the 88th minute.

Alex face-planted into the grass. He didn't care.

He felt the weight of Jude landing on him. Then Mark. Then Antoine. Then Bastian.

"THE PROFESSOR!" Bastian roared. "THE DIVING ROCK!"

Alex couldn't breathe. He was being crushed by love and muscle.

"Get off!" Alex squeaked. "I need oxygen!"

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Atletico Madrid 1.

They had beaten the Dark Arts.

Alex stood up. He was dizzy. He was covered in grass stains.

Koke walked past. He didn't look at Alex. He just stared at the ground.

Simeone, the Atletico manager, was standing on the touchline. He wasn't screaming. He was clapping. Just a little.

He respected the fight.

Alex walked to the tunnel.

Milo was there. He was wearing... a matador outfit.

"OLE!" Milo screamed. "WE TAMED THE BULL! ALEX! THE DIVING HEADER! I AM CALLING IT 'THE FLYING PROFESSOR'! WE NEED A CAPE!"

"No capes, Milo," Alex said, smiling.

He walked into the locker room.

Mark was sitting there, looking at his muddy silver boots.

"We won," Mark said. "In the war."

"We won," Alex said.

"Did you see Bastian run?" Mark asked. "He looked like a runaway train."

"He was beautiful," Alex said.

Steve walked in.

"That," Steve said, "was a champion's performance. You got hit. You got tricked. And you found a way."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You tricked the tricksters. I am proud."

Alex sat at his locker. Number 8.

He checked his phone.

A text from his mum.

"I saw the header! You are going to ruin your hair gel. But good goal. Dad is dancing in the kitchen."

Alex laughed.

He was tired. He was sore.

But he was happy.

He packed his bag. He didn't have school tomorrow.

He could sleep.

"Mark," Alex said. "Do you want to drive?"

"The hearse?" Mark asked.

"The hearse."

"Yes!" Mark grinned. "I will play the funeral march. For Atletico."

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