Alex sat in the locker room on Tuesday night. It was raining in London.

The Emirates Stadium was vibrating above them. The Champions League anthem was playing on the speakers in the hallway, a muffled, holy sound.

Arsenal led 2-0 from the first leg in Paris.

It should have felt safe. It should have felt comfortable.

But it felt like sitting in a dentist's waiting room before a root canal.

"They are going to come at us," Harry Kane said. He was taping his socks. He looked serious. "Mbappe is not happy. I saw him in the tunnel. He looks like he wants to eat someone."

"Let him try," Jude Bellingham said. Jude was sitting shirtless, looking like a statue carved out of confidence. "I am not edible. I am rock."

Mark was pacing. He was wearing his full kit, plus a pair of neon yellow wristbands.

"Why are you wearing wristbands, Speed?" Alex asked.

"Aerodynamics!" Mark said, waving his arms. "They cut the wind! Also, they glow in the dark. In case the lights go out."

"The lights are not going to go out, Mark," Antoine said, fixing his hair in the mirror. "This is London, not a dungeon."

Antoine looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are quiet. Are you calculating?"

Alex looked at his white boots. "I am calculating the probability of Mbappe running 35 kilometers per hour for ninety minutes."

"And?"

"It is high," Alex said. "Very high."

The door banged open.

Milo walked in.

He was not wearing a suit. He was wearing... a high-visibility neon vest. And he was holding a stop sign. A real, metal stop sign.

"HALT!" Milo screamed. "STOP! ARRET! I AM THE TRAFFIC WARDEN OF DESTINY!"

Steve, the manager, looked up from his notes. He looked tired.

"Milo," Steve sighed. "Why do you have a stop sign?"

"Psychological warfare, Steve!" Milo yelled. "We show this to Mbappe! We say 'STOP'! We park the bus! We park the train! We park the spaceship!"

"We are not parking anything," Steve said. "Get out. And leave the sign. It might be useful if Mark tries to run into the tunnel wall."

Milo saluted. "KEEP THE TRAFFIC MOVING, BOYS! BEEP BEEP!"

He ran out.

Steve looked at the team.

"He is crazy," Steve said. "But he is right about one thing. We have to stop them."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. They need two goals. They will take risks. They will push high. This leaves space behind them."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. Tonight, you are not just a striker. You are a sniper. You wait in the long grass. When Alex gets the ball... you run. Do not look back."

"I never look back," Mark said solemnly. "It slows me down."

The tunnel.

Mbappe was there. He was wearing the white away kit of PSG. He looked focused. He looked scary.

He didn't look at Alex. He stared straight ahead at the pitch.

The noise in the stadium was deafening.

The Chaaaaampions.

Alex felt the shiver. This was it. The Quarter Final, second leg.

The whistle blew.

PSG did not wait. They exploded.

In the first leg, they had been arrogant. Tonight, they were desperate.

They pressed Arsenal into their own box.

In the 5th minute, Hakimi flew down the wing. He crossed.

Mbappe was there. He volleyed it.

Ramsdale made a miracle save.

"CLEAR IT!" Bastian roared, heading the ball away.

Arsenal couldn't breathe. They couldn't get the ball.

Alex was running, blocking, tackling. He was the Shield.

But the waves kept coming.

In the 15th minute, the dam broke.

Dembele dribbled past the left back. He cut it back.

Mbappe was waiting. He didn't smash it. He passed it into the corner.

GOAL.

One zero to PSG.

The aggregate score was 2-1. Arsenal still led, but the fear was real.

The away fans lit flares. The stadium filled with smoke.

"Calm down!" Jude yelled, grabbing the ball. "We are still winning!"

But they didn't feel like winners. They felt like prey.

Alex looked at the PSG midfield. Vitinha and Ruiz were controlling everything. They weren't letting Alex get near the ball.

"They are boxing me in," Alex whispered to Antoine. "I can't turn."

"Then don't turn," Antoine said. "Play it back. Survive."

35th minute.

Arsenal lost the ball in midfield.

Mbappe got it. Ideally, he was 40 yards out.

He ran.

Alex tried to foul him. He reached out a hand.

Mbappe was too fast. He slipped away like smoke.

He ran at the defense. He faked a shot. Bastian slid.

Mbappe went round him.

He smashed the ball into the roof of the net.

GOAL.

Two zero PSG.

The stadium went silent.

The aggregate score was 2-2.

Arsenal's lead was gone. In thirty-five minutes, the dream was collapsing.

Mbappe grabbed the ball. He ran back to the center circle. He wanted more. He wanted to kill them.

Alex stood in the center circle. He looked at Mark.

Mark looked terrified. His neon wristbands were shaking.

"We are losing," Mark whispered. "We are going to lose."

"We are drawn," Alex said. His voice was stable. "It is a new game. Zero zero."

"But they are monsters!" Mark said.

"They are tired," Alex said.

He looked at Mbappe. The French superstar was breathing hard. He had sprinted fifty yards for the goal.

"They are sprinting a marathon," Alex said. "We just need... one moment."

Halftime. 2-2 on aggregate.

The locker room was a funeral.

Steve stood in the middle. He kicked a water bottle across the room.

CRASH.

"Are you scared?" Steve shouted.

Nobody answered.

"I asked... ARE YOU SCARED?"

"Yes!" Mark squeaked.

"GOOD!" Steve roared. "Be scared! Fear makes you run faster! But do not be stupid!"

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are letting them bully you. You are playing like a schoolboy. Stop analyzing the game and start playing it."

"They are marking me out of the game, boss," Alex said. "I can't find space."

"Then create space," Steve said. "Move where they are not."

He moved a magnet on the board.

"Drop deeper. Become a third center back. Pick up the ball from the goalkeeper. Make them come all the way to our box to get you."

"And then?"

"And then," Steve said, looking at Jude. "We launch the Power."

Second half.

Alex dropped deep. He stood right next to the goalkeeper.

The PSG midfielders, Vitinha and Ruiz, hesitated. They didn't want to run that far forward. It left a huge gap behind them.

Alex got the ball. He had time.

He looked up.

The midfield was open.

He passed to Jude.

Jude turned. He had thirty yards of green grass to run into.

The "Power" unleashed.

Jude drove forward. The PSG defense backed off. They were scared of him.

Jude reached the edge of the box. He shot.

The keeper saved it.

"BETTER!" the crowd roared. The belief was coming back.

60th minute.

The game was balanced on a knife edge. One goal for either team would likely win it.

Alex was controlling the tempo now. Tick. Tock.

He slowed it down when PSG pressed. He sped it up when they relaxed.

He was the conductor.

He saw Antoine. The Magician was drifting wide.

Alex hit a diagonal pass.

Antoine controlled it with his chest. He nutmegged the defender.

He crossed.

Mark was there. The Arrow.

He jumped. He headed it.

Wide.

"NOOO!" Mark screamed, pulling his hair. "MY HEAD IS A RECTANGLE! I HATE PHYSICS!"

75th minute.

Still 2-0 (2-2 aggregate). Extra time was looming.

Mbappe was tired. He wasn't running as much. He was waiting for the ball.

Alex saw it.

He is not pressing.

Alex took a risk.

He dribbled.

He ran past the first line of pressure.

He crossed the halfway line.

"Go on, son!" his dad yelled from the stands.

Alex kept going.

A PSG defender came out to meet him.

Alex looked at Jude. He faked the pass.

The defender moved.

Alex played a reverse pass. Through the legs of the defender.

To Mark.

Mark was on the edge of the box.

He had his back to goal.

He couldn't turn. The defender was tight on him.

Mark didn't turn.

He laid it off. First time.

Back to... Antoine.

Antoine was running onto it.

He was twenty yards out.

"SHOOT!" the crowd screamed.

Antoine wound up.

But he didn't shoot.

He saw Alex.

Alex had continued his run. He was entering the box.

Antoine slipped a tiny, delicate pass.

Alex was free. Eight yards out.

The angle was tight. The keeper was rushing out.

Alex remembered the "Teaspoon". The chip.

He didn't have time for a chip.

He remembered the "Cannonball". The smash.

He didn't have space for a smash.

He remembered the "Mouse". Under the wall.

He looked at the keeper's legs.

They were wide apart. The keeper was trying to make himself big.

Alex poked it.

A toe-poke. The playground shot.

The ball rolled.

It went through the keeper's legs.

It rolled slowly towards the goal.

A PSG defender slid in. He tried to hook it away.

He was too late.

The ball crossed the line.

GOAL!

2-1. (3-2 aggregate).

Arsenal were ahead.

Alex didn't run. He just fell forward. He was exhausted.

Jude grabbed him. Mark grabbed him.

"THE TOE POKE!" Mark screamed. "THE UGLIEST GOAL IN HISTORY! I LOVE IT!"

"It counts!" Alex laughed, buried under his teammates. "It counts!"

Fifteen minutes left.

PSG threw everything. The kitchen sink. The Eiffel Tower.

Mbappe ran. He shot.

Ramsdale saved.

Bastian blocked a shot with his face. He didn't even blink.

"I am German," Bastian grunted. "My face is made of stone."

Alex was everywhere. He was running on adrenaline.

94th minute.

Last chance for PSG.

Corner kick.

The ball came in.

Alex jumped. He felt a push. He felt an elbow.

He didn't care.

He headed the ball away.

It flew high into the night sky.

The referee blew the whistle.

Game over.

Arsenal 1 (3). PSG 2 (2).

Arsenal were in the Semi-Finals.

The stadium erupted. The noise was shaking the foundations of North London.

Alex lay on the grass. He looked up at the floodlights. They looked like stars.

Mark lay down next to him.

"We beat him," Mark whispered. "We beat the turtle."

"We beat him," Alex said.

Antoine walked over. He sat down on the grass with them.

"My old team," Antoine said, looking at the dejected PSG players. "They will be angry. But... we were better. We were a team."

Jude walked over. He didn't sit. He just flexed.

"Semi-Finals," Jude grinned. "Who is next?"

"Bayern? City?" Mark asked.

"It doesn't matter," Alex said, sitting up. "Bring them on."

Alex walked to the tunnel. He was limping.

Mbappe was waiting.

The French superstar looked devastated. But he looked at Alex.

"Professor," Mbappe said.

"Kylian," Alex nodded.

"That toe poke," Mbappe said, shaking his head. "It was... disrespectful."

"It was efficient," Alex smiled.

Mbappe half-smiled. "You are a problem, kid. A big problem."

He walked away.

Milo ran out of the shadows. He was holding the stop sign.

"STOP!" Milo yelled. "STOP THE PRESSES! THE TOE POKE! I AM TRADEMARKING IT! 'THE FINCH FLICK'! WE WILL SELL SOCKS WITH REINFORCED TOES!"

"Good idea, Milo," Alex laughed.

He walked into the locker room.

The music was blaring. Champagne was spraying.

Steve was in the corner, drinking a cup of tea. He looked at Alex.

"Good work, Professor," Steve said. "You solved the puzzle."

"It was a hard puzzle," Alex admitted.

"The next one will be harder," Steve said. "But tonight... enjoy."

Alex sat at his locker.

He looked at his phone.

A text from Maya.

"I calculated the probability of a toe-poke scoring from that angle. It was 7%. You defied the odds. Also... your hair looked messy on TV."

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