Mr. Evans was pointing at a pull-down map of Europe with a long wooden stick.

"Spain," Mr. Evans said, tapping the Iberian Peninsula. "Known for its climate, its culture, and its exports. Can anyone name a major export?"

Alex raised his hand.

"Yes, Alex?"

"Midfielders, sir," Alex said. "Very short, very technical midfielders."

The class laughed. Mr. Evans sighed.

"I was looking for olive oil, Mr. Finch. But I suppose you have your mind on other things."

"I am trying to focus, sir," Alex said. "But the flight leaves in four hours."

"Well," Mr. Evans smiled. "Bring us back a souvenir. Preferably three points."

Alex walked out of the school gates.

Mark was waiting.

He was not in a car today. He was sitting on a Vespa. A bright yellow, vintage Italian scooter. He was wearing a helmet with goggles.

"CIAO!" Mark screamed, revving the tiny engine. It sounded like an angry lawnmower.

"Mark," Alex said, staring at the scooter. "We are going to Spain. Not Italy."

"It is European!" Mark yelled. "It sets the mood! Hop on, Professor! Hold tight to my waist!"

Alex sighed. He climbed onto the back of the tiny scooter. His knees were almost touching his chin.

"This is not dignified," Alex muttered.

"It is romantic!" Mark shouted. "To the airport!"

They wobbled down the road at twenty miles per hour, a line of cars honking behind them.

The team plane was much more comfortable.

Alex sat next to Jude.

Jude was watching videos on his tablet.

"Barcelona," Jude said. "The semi-final."

"They are the favorites," Alex said. "They always are."

"They have Yamal," Jude said. "The winger. He is sixteen. Like you."

Alex looked at the screen. He saw a kid doing incredible tricks. Fast. Skillful.

"He looks... fun," Alex said.

"He looks like a nightmare," Jude corrected. "And they have Pedri. And Gavi. The Golden Boys."

Alex touched the spot where his own Golden Boy trophy sat in his mind.

"I am the Golden Boy," Alex said quietly.

"Show them," Jude grinned. "Show them why the trophy lives in London."

Barcelona. The Camp Nou.

It was under renovation, so they were playing at the Olympic Stadium on the hill. It was open. It was windy.

But it was still Barcelona.

The air smelled of sea salt and churros.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

The Barcelona players were lined up. They wore the famous blue and red stripes.

They looked small. Technical. Sharp.

Lamine Yamal, the wonderkid, looked at Alex. He smiled. He had braces on his teeth.

"Hola," Yamal said.

"Hola," Alex replied.

"You are the Professor?" Yamal asked in broken English.

"Yes."

"I hate school," Yamal laughed. "I like to play."

"We will play," Alex promised.

The whistle blew.

Steve, the manager, had warned them.

"They will keep the ball. They will put you to sleep. Do not sleep."

It was true.

Barcelona passed the ball. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

They made triangles. They moved in perfect synchronization.

Arsenal couldn't get near them.

Alex ran left. The ball went right.

Alex ran forward. The ball went back.

He felt like he was chasing a ghost.

"They are dizzying me!" Mark yelled from the wing. "I am getting sea sick!"

In the 20th minute, Barcelona scored.

A passing move that lasted two minutes. Thirty passes.

Yamal finished it with a curl into the corner.

One zero.

The crowd chanted. "Barca! Barca!"

Alex stood in the center circle. He felt heavy.

Antoine walked over. "They are painting a picture, Professor. And we are just the canvas."

"We need to ruin the painting," Alex said.

"How?"

Alex looked at the Barcelona midfield.

They were perfect. But they were arrogant.

They played high. They trusted their technique too much.

"We need chaos," Alex said. "We need to make it ugly."

He looked at Jude.

"Jude. Stop trying to intercept. Just... hit them."

"Hit them?" Jude asked.

"Legally," Alex said. "Shoulder to shoulder. Make them feel you. They are small. You are a giant. Shake the ground."

Jude cracked his knuckles. "I can do that."

The game restarted.

Pedri got the ball. He turned.

Jude didn't try to take the ball. He just ran through the space Pedri was occupying.

BOOM.

Jude's shoulder met Pedri's shoulder.

It was no contest. Pedri went flying.

The referee waved play on. It was a fair challenge.

Jude took the ball. He drove forward.

The Barcelona rhythm was broken. They were shocked.

Jude passed to Antoine.

Antoine flicked it to Mark.

Mark ran. The Arrow.

He shot. Side netting.

"Better!" Steve yelled from the sideline. "Break the rhythm!"

The game changed. It became physical.

Arsenal stopped being polite guests. They became rude intruders.

Every time a Barcelona player touched the ball, an Arsenal player was there, breathing down his neck.

Alex was the conductor of the press.

"NOW!" he would yell.

And the team would swarm.

In the 40th minute, Alex saw it.

The Barcelona keeper passed short to the defender. The defender looked relaxed.

Too relaxed.

Alex signaled.

Mark saw the signal.

Mark sprinted.

The defender tried to turn. But Mark was too fast.

Mark stole the ball on the edge of the box.

Chaos.

The defender pulled Mark's shirt.

Mark stumbled. But he kept going.

He was one on one.

He didn't shoot.

He squared it.

Alex had run from midfield. The late arrival.

He was there.

The goal was open.

He tapped it in.

GOAL!

One one.

Alex ran to the corner. He didn't do the "Professor".

He pretended to break a stick over his knee.

Snap.

"We broke the rhythm!" Alex yelled.

Jude ran over and lifted him up. "Physical! We are bullies! I love it!"

Halftime. One one.

The locker room was loud.

"They don't like it," Harry Kane said, wiping sweat from his face. "They don't like the contact."

"They want a dance," Bastian grunted. "We are giving them a mosh pit."

Steve stood in the middle.

"Good," he said. "You made it ugly. Now... make it lethal."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Second half. They will be angry. They will push forward. They will leave space behind."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. The space is yours. But you must be patient. Wait for the Professor's signal."

"I am waiting," Mark said, bouncing his leg. "I am a coiled spring."

Second half.

Barcelona attacked. They were angry. They wanted to restore order.

Yamal was dangerous. He dribbled past Antoine. He shot. Ramsdale saved.

Arsenal held on. The Shield held firm.

65th minute.

Alex won the ball on the edge of his own box.

He looked up.

The Barcelona defense was high. Way too high.

Mark was on the halfway line. He was leaning forward, ready to sprint.

Alex didn't pass to Mark.

He passed to Antoine on the wing.

Antoine held the ball. He drew the defenders in.

Mark started his run. He ran diagonally. From left to right.

Antoine saw him.

But Antoine didn't pass. He passed back to Alex.

Now... Alex had the ball.

He was facing the play.

Mark was in full flight. He was running into a huge gap in the defense.

The Barcelona defenders were looking at Antoine. They had lost Mark.

Alex hit the pass.

The "Hurricane".

A sixty-yard, lofted, spinning ball.

It was perfect.

It landed in Mark's path.

Mark didn't even have to slow down.

He took one touch with his head to push it forward.

He was clear.

The keeper came out.

Mark looked at the keeper.

He remembered the chip against PSG.

He remembered the smash against Newcastle.

He decided to do neither.

He went around him.

He touched the ball to the right. The keeper dived and missed.

Mark ran around the sprawling body.

The goal was empty.

He walked the ball to the line.

He stopped it.

He looked at the crowd.

Then he poked it in.

GOAL.

Two one. Arsenal.

Mark ran to the corner flag. He took off his imaginary hat and bowed.

"THE SHOW IS OVER!" Mark screamed.

Alex ran all the way from defense. He hugged Mark.

"The run," Alex panted. "The timing. Perfect."

"The pass," Mark grinned. "Adequate."

The last twenty minutes were desperate.

Barcelona threw everything.

Alex was tired. His legs felt like jelly.

But he was the Brain. He organized the defense.

"Left! Right! Hold!"

He moved Jude like a chess piece. He moved Bastian.

They held the line.

93rd minute.

Barcelona corner.

The ball came in.

Bastian headed it clear.

The referee blew the whistle.

Arsenal 2. Barcelona 1.

An away win in the Semi-Final.

Alex collapsed on the grass.

Jude lay down next to him.

"We did it," Jude said. "We beat the artists."

"We broke the rhythm," Alex whispered.

Yamal walked over. He looked sad, but he offered a hand.

"Good game, Professor," Yamal said. "You are... annoying."

"Thanks," Alex smiled, shaking his hand.

Milo was waiting in the tunnel. He was wearing a flamenco dancer's outfit. Red with polka dots.

"OLE!" Milo screamed. "THE BULLFIGHTERS! ALEX! THE TACTICS! I AM SELLING CHALKBOARDS! 'THE PROFESSOR'S PLAN'!"

"Milo," Alex groaned. "Please. No polka dots."

"IT IS PASSION!" Milo yelled.

They got on the bus.

It was quiet. Happy quiet.

Alex checked his phone.

A text from Maya.

"Probability of winning from 1-0 down at Barcelona: 8%. You are a statistical anomaly, Finch. Also, Mr. Evans says you still have to do the map quiz on Monday."

Alex laughed.

He looked out the window at the Spanish night.

One more game. The second leg.

Then... the Final.

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