"Why does it always rain when we play big games?" Mark asked, looking gloomy. "I am a solar-powered athlete. I need sun."

"The rain makes the pitch fast," Alex said, not looking away from the window. "It suits us."

"It suits Mbappe," Antoine said from the seat behind them. Antoine looked nervous. He was chewing his nails. "He loves the wet. It makes him slide."

"We will stop him," Jude said, flexing his biceps. "I will slide into him. Hard."

"Don't get sent off, Power," Alex warned. "We need eleven men."

The bus pulled up to the Parc des Princes. It was a concrete fortress, surrounded by thousands of angry French fans.

Flares were burning. Red smoke filled the air.

"Bienvenue à Paris," Antoine whispered. "Welcome to the jungle."

The locker room was small and hot.

Steve, the manager, stood in the middle. He looked calm.

"Quarter Final," Steve said. "First leg. Away."

He looked at the team.

"They are the favorites. They have Mbappe. They have Hakimi. They have Dembele. They are fast. They are dangerous."

He paused.

"But they are... fragile. They have egos. Big egos. If things go wrong... they fight each other. They panic."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Today, your job is not just to play football. It is to... annoy them. Frustrate them. Make them angry."

"I can do annoying," Mark piped up.

"Not you, Speed," Steve said. "You stay quiet. You wait. Professor... I want you to mark Mbappe."

The room went silent.

"Me?" Alex asked. "But... I am a midfielder. He is a striker. Or a winger."

"He drops deep," Steve said. "He wants the ball in the hole. He wants to turn and run at our defense. If our defenders step up... he runs behind. If they stay back... he shoots."

Steve smiled.

"So... you step up. You become the extra defender. You sit in his space. You deny him the ball. You become his shadow."

"Like Kante," Jude said.

"Like a very annoying Kante," Steve agreed. "Can you do it, Alex?"

Alex swallowed. Mark Mbappe. The fastest player in the world.

"I will try, coach."

"Do not try," Steve said. "Do."

The tunnel.

The PSG players were lined up. They looked like models. Perfect hair. Perfect kits.

Mbappe was at the front. He was chewing gum, looking relaxed.

He saw Antoine. They hugged. They spoke in rapid French.

Then Mbappe looked at Alex.

"Professor," Mbappe said. "Ready for class?"

"Always," Alex said.

"I hope you brought your running shoes," Mbappe grinned. "Today... we fly."

He turned away.

Alex looked at his white boots. They were clean. They were ready.

He took a deep breath.

Be the shadow. Be the rock. Be the annoying little brother.

The whistle blew.

The game started at a hundred miles an hour.

PSG attacked. They were fluid. They moved like water.

Mbappe drifted. He went left. He went right. He dropped deep.

Alex followed him.

Everywhere Mbappe went, Alex was there. Two yards away. Watching. Waiting.

In the 10th minute, Mbappe got the ball. He turned.

Alex stepped in. He didn't tackle. He just put his body in the way.

Mbappe ran into him.

Oof.

Alex stayed standing. He was stable.

Mbappe stumbled. He lost the ball.

"Foul!" Mbappe yelled at the referee.

"Play on!" the referee waved.

Mbappe glared at Alex. "You are pushing me."

"I am just standing here," Alex said innocently.

Five minutes later. Mbappe tried a flick.

Alex read it. He intercepted it.

He passed to Jude.

Jude drove forward. He passed to Mark.

Mark shot. Wide.

"Close!" Mark yelled.

The pattern was set.

Mbappe wanted the ball. Alex denied him.

Mbappe got frustrated. He started dropping deeper and deeper, trying to find space.

This was the trap.

By dropping deep, Mbappe was leaving the dangerous areas. He was playing in midfield.

"Good!" Steve yelled from the sideline. "Keep him there!"

In the 30th minute, Mbappe got the ball near the halfway line. He was angry.

He decided to do it all himself.

He ran.

He beat Jude. He beat Bastian.

He was flying.

He got to the edge of the box.

Alex was the last line.

He was terrified. Mbappe was coming at him at full speed.

Physics, Alex thought. Momentum.

He didn't dive in. He didn't back off.

He waited for Mbappe to push the ball.

Mbappe pushed it. A heavy touch.

Alex slid.

Not at Mbappe. At the space.

He blocked the path.

Mbappe had to jump over him. He lost his rhythm. He lost the ball.

The crowd booed. "Penalty!"

"No penalty," the referee said. "Clean tackle."

Mbappe stood over Alex. He was breathing hard.

"You are a pest," Mbappe said.

"I am a shield," Alex panted, getting up. "And you are fast. But you are not magic."

Halftime. Zero zero.

It was a tactical masterclass. Arsenal had neutralized the best player in the world.

But they hadn't scored.

"We need a goal," Mark said in the locker room. "I am bored of defending. I want to run."

"Patience, Speed," Antoine said. "They are getting tired. They are getting angry. The space will come."

Steve looked at them.

"Second half. They will push. They will throw more men forward. Hakimi will overlap. Dembele will cut inside."

He looked at Mark.

"When Hakimi goes forward... who is defending his side?"

"No one," Mark said, his eyes lighting up.

"Exactly," Steve said. "That is your runway, Speed. When we win the ball... you run into that space. Do not wait for the pass. Just go."

"I will go," Mark promised. "I will go to the moon."

Second half.

PSG came out flying. They were desperate.

Hakimi bombed forward. He was playing like a winger.

In the 55th minute, Arsenal won the ball.

Jude tackled Dembele. He was a rock.

He looked up.

Mark was already gone.

He was sprinting into the empty space on the left wing.

Jude hit the pass. A long, raking diagonal ball.

Mark caught it. He was free.

He ran. He was the Arrow.

The PSG center backs were trying to catch him. They were too slow.

Mark got to the box.

He looked up.

Antoine was in the middle.

But Alex... Alex was arriving late. The Ghost Run.

Mark crossed it.

It wasn't a high cross. It was a cutback. To the edge of the box.

Alex was there.

He didn't shoot first time.

He let the ball run across his body.

A defender slid past, trying to block the shot.

Alex took a touch. He looked at the goal.

He curled it.

With his right foot.

The ball bent around the keeper. It hit the inside of the post.

GOAL!

One zero. Arsenal.

The away fans went wild.

Alex ran to the corner. He did the Professor celebration. Finger to the head.

Mark jumped on him. "THE PLAN! THE RUNWAY! IT WORKED!"

Mbappe stood in the center circle, hands on his hips. He looked furious.

PSG panicked.

They threw everything at Arsenal.

Mbappe was everywhere. He hit the post. He forced a great save from Ramsdale.

But Arsenal held on. They were a unit.

85th minute.

PSG corner.

The ball came in.

Bastian headed it clear.

The ball fell to Antoine.

Antoine was surrounded.

He did a roulette spin. A Zidane turn.

He broke free.

He saw Mark.

"ALLEZ!" Antoine yelled.

He played the pass.

Mark ran.

It was a footrace. Mark vs Marquinhos, the PSG captain.

Mark was faster. He got to the ball first.

He was one on one.

The keeper came out.

Mark chipped him.

A delicate, cheeky chip.

The ball floated into the net.

GOAL!

Two zero.

Mark ran to the PSG fans. He put his hands to his ears. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

"Mark! No!" Alex yelled, running over to pull him away. "Don't make them angry!"

But it was too late. The game was over.

Final whistle. Arsenal 2. PSG 0.

A massive away win. One foot in the Semi-Finals.

Alex walked off the pitch. He was exhausted. His legs felt like lead.

Mbappe walked past him. He didn't stop. He didn't shake hands. He just stormed down the tunnel.

"He is angry," Antoine said, walking next to Alex. "He hates losing. Especially in Paris."

"He will be dangerous in London," Alex said.

"Yes," Antoine agreed. "But today... today we are Kings."

Milo was waiting. He was wearing a beret and a striped shirt. He was holding a baguette.

"VIVE LA FRANCE!" Milo screamed. "BUT VIVE L'ARSENAL MORE! ALEX! THE CURL! THE FINESSE! I AM SELLING CURVED BANANAS! 'THE FINCH FRUIT'!"

"Milo, please," Alex laughed. "Just get me on the bus."

On the plane home, Alex sat next to Jude.

"We did it," Jude said, looking at his phone. "Everyone is talking about us. The Golden Generation."

"We haven't won yet," Alex said. "There is still a second leg."

"We will win," Jude said confidently. "We have the Professor."

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