"Alright, listen up!" Mr. Baker shouted. "Today we are playing indoor football. Five-a-side. Shirts versus Skins."

He looked at Alex.

Alex was wearing his school PE kit. He was tying his shoelaces.

"Finch," Mr. Baker said.

"Yes, sir?"

"You are on the 'Skins' team. But... I am implementing a handicap."

"A handicap, sir?"

"Yes," Mr. Baker grinned. "You are not allowed to run. You can only walk. And you are not allowed to score. You can only pass."

The other students laughed.

"That is fair," a boy named Toby said. "He is a Champions League finalist. We are just... us."

Alex smiled. "Understood, sir. Walking only."

The game started.

It was chaos. Twenty teenagers running around a small gym, shouting, sweating, and kicking each other.

Alex walked.

He walked to the left. He walked to the right.

He got the ball.

Toby rushed at him. "I'm going to tackle a pro!" Toby yelled.

Alex didn't run. He just rolled the ball under his foot. Toby slid past him and hit the wall mats. Whump.

Alex looked up.

He saw a gap.

He passed the ball. A gentle, rolling pass through three pairs of legs.

It found a kid named Sam (not the Sam from the U18s, just School Sam).

Sam tapped it in.

"GOAL!" Sam screamed, sliding on his knees on the hardwood floor. "THE PROFESSOR ASSISTED ME!"

Alex clapped. "Good finish, Sam."

Mr. Baker blew the whistle. "Okay, Finch. New rule. You have to play blindfolded."

Alex laughed. "Sir, that might be a health and safety violation."

School finished. Alex walked out to the car park.

He heard a siren.

Whoop. Whoop.

He looked around. Was there a fire?

No.

It was Mark.

Mark was driving... an ambulance. An actual, retired ambulance with the lights still flashing (but no siren sound, he was making the noise with his mouth).

"WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO!" Mark yelled out the window.

He was wearing a doctor's coat and a stethoscope around his neck.

Alex stopped. He stared.

"Mark," Alex said. "Why?"

"THE EMERGENCY VEHICLE!" Mark shouted. "BECAUSE WE ARE SURGEONS! WE DISSECT DEFENSES! GET IN, DOCTOR FINCH!"

"I am the Professor, not a doctor," Alex sighed, climbing into the passenger seat.

"Same thing! Smart people in coats!" Mark revved the engine. "To the training ground! I have to operate on a sandwich! I am starving!"

The training ground was quiet. It was evening.

The team was gathered in the cinema room.

Huge screens. Popcorn. Pizza.

Tonight was the other Semi-Final.

Real Madrid vs. Manchester City.

The winner would play Arsenal in the Champions League Final at Wembley.

Alex sat between Jude and Antoine.

Jude was eating a slice of pepperoni pizza. He looked intense.

"City," Jude said. "I want City. An all-English final. At Wembley. It would be... poetic."

"No," Antoine said, shaking his head. He was drinking sparkling water. "I want Madrid. To be the best, you must beat the Kings. If we beat City, people will say it is just the Premier League. If we beat Madrid... we are legends."

Mark was sitting on the floor, still wearing his doctor's coat. He was using the stethoscope to listen to a football.

"The ball has a heartbeat," Mark whispered. "It says... 'Kick me'."

"Shh," Bastian grunted from the back. "The game is starting."

The match was a war.

Manchester City played like a machine. Pass, move, pass, move.

Real Madrid played like a predator. They waited. They suffered. They struck.

City scored first. Haaland. A robot goal.

Madrid equalized. Vinicius. A magic goal.

It went to extra time.

115th minute.

City were pushing. They looked stronger.

But then... Modric got the ball. The old master.

He didn't look. He just hit a pass.

A pass that curved around time and space.

Rodrygo ran onto it.

Goal.

2-1 Madrid.

The whistle blew.

Real Madrid were in the Final.

The room at Arsenal's training ground was silent.

Alex looked at the screen. He saw the Madrid players celebrating in their white shirts. They looked used to it. They looked like winning was just another Tuesday.

He saw Sergio Ramos (who had returned for one last dance). The captain.

He looked scary.

"So," Steve, the manager, said from the back of the room.

He walked to the front. He turned off the TV. The screen went black.

"The Kings," Steve said. "Fourteen titles. They have never lost a modern final."

He looked at his team.

"They are the final boss. The ultimate test."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You wanted to build a dynasty? To build a dynasty... you have to destroy the old one."

Alex felt a shiver go down his spine.

"We beat them in the group stage," Mark said from the floor. "We beat them good."

"Group stage is a skirmish," Bastian said, his voice deep and gravelly. "The Final... the Final is war. They will be different. They will be... monsters."

"Good," Jude said, standing up. He crushed his empty water bottle. "I like monster hunting."

The week leading up to the final was strange.

It wasn't frantic. It wasn't loud.

It was... focused.

Steve didn't make them run until they puked. He didn't make them play "The Hot Potato."

He made them play... chess.

Literally.

He set up a giant chess board on the training pitch. The pieces were the size of toddlers.

"Football is space," Steve said. "Real Madrid controls space. Kroos. Modric. They checkmate you before you even move."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are the Grandmaster today. You move the pieces. The rest of you... you are the pieces."

"I want to be the Knight!" Mark yelled. "Because it jumps! It is chaotic!"

"You are a Pawn, Speed," Steve said. "But a very fast Pawn. A Pawn that can become a Queen."

Mark looked confused. "I do not want to be a Queen. Can I be a Rook? Rooks go straight."

"Fine. You are a Rook."

Alex stood on a ladder overlooking the board.

"Jude," Alex called out. "Move to E4. Control the center."

Jude walked to the square.

"Antoine," Alex said. "F3. Be the threat."

"Bastian. Castling. Protect the King."

"Who is the King?" Bastian asked.

"The goal," Alex said.

They played a simulated game against a "Madrid" formation.

It was slow. It was mental.

"If Modric steps here," Alex shouted, moving a black piece, "Where is the space?"

"Behind him!" Mark yelled.

"Correct. Rook takes... space."

By Friday, Alex's brain was tired. But he saw the pitch differently. He didn't see grass. He saw squares. He saw diagonals. He saw checkmate.

Friday afternoon.

Alex walked out of the training ground. He was carrying his boots.

Milo was waiting.

He was not in a car.

He was standing next to... a carriage.

A gold, horse-drawn carriage. With two white horses.

Milo was wearing a tuxedo and a top hat.

"THE ROYAL PROCESSION!" Milo screamed. "WE ARE GOING TO WEMBLEY IN STYLE! ALEX! I HAVE A DEAL WITH THE ROYAL FAMILY! WELL, NOT THE REAL ONE, BUT A VERY CONVINCING LOOKALIKE!"

"Milo," Alex said, rubbing his eyes. "I cannot arrive at Wembley in a carriage. I will look like Cinderella."

"CINDERELLA WON!" Milo argued. "SHE GOT THE PRINCE! YOU GET THE TROPHY!"

"I am taking the bus, Milo."

"FINE! BUT TAKE THE SCEPTER!"

Milo tried to hand Alex a plastic golden stick with a jewel on it.

"It is a prop!" Milo said. "For the photos!"

"Give it to Mark," Alex said.

Mark ran out. He saw the carriage. He saw the scepter.

"IS THAT FOR ME?" Mark gasped.

"YES, YOUR MAJESTY!" Milo bowed.

Mark grabbed the scepter. He climbed into the carriage.

"TO THE CASTLE!" Mark commanded the confused driver. "MUSH!"

Saturday. Wembley Stadium. London.

The Champions League Final.

It was a home game, really. But the stadium was split.

Half Red. Half White.

The noise was a physical force. It vibrated through the floor of the locker room.

Alex sat at his locker. Number 8.

His white boots were polished. His kit was pristine.

He looked at his teammates.

Bastian was meditating.

Jude was staring at the wall, eyes burning.

Antoine was fixing his hair, but his hands were shaking slightly.

Mark was... quiet. He was sitting still. He was holding the plastic scepter Milo gave him. He looked like a king praying for war.

Steve walked in.

He wore a suit. A black tie. He looked like he was going to a funeral or a wedding.

"Gentlemen," Steve said.

The room went silent.

"They say Real Madrid owns this competition. They say it is their destiny."

He looked at the Diamond.

"Destiny is just a story people tell to make sense of the past. Today... we write the future."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You have analyzed them. You know their habits. You know their weakness."

"They are old," Alex said. "They are legends. But legends get tired."

"Exactly," Steve said. "We do not respect them. We run them. We move them. We make them feel every single year of their age."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. You are the clock. Every time you run... their time runs out. Make them feel old."

Mark nodded. He gripped the scepter. "I will make them ancient."

"Go," Steve said. "Bring it home."

The tunnel.

The Madrid players were there.

They looked calm. They were chatting. Laughing.

They had done this fourteen times. It was just another Saturday.

Vinicius Jr. winked at Jude. "Hola, amigo."

"Not today, Vini," Jude said coldly.

Modric looked at Alex. The old master vs the young apprentice.

Modric smiled. A gentle, knowing smile.

"Class is in session, Professor?" Modric asked.

"Final exam," Alex replied.

They walked out.

The roar. The Champions League anthem. The fire.

Alex looked at the trophy on the pedestal.

It was right there.

The whistle blew.

Real Madrid did what Real Madrid does.

They didn't panic. They didn't rush. They just... played.

Kroos passed to Modric. Modric passed to Valverde. Tick. Tock.

They kept the ball away from Arsenal. They made Arsenal chase.

Alex ran. He pressed. But the ball was always gone.

In the 20th minute, Vinicius exploded.

He ran down the wing. He beat Ben White.

He cut inside. He curled a shot.

Ramsdale saved it. But the rebound fell to Rodrygo.

GOAL.

One zero. Madrid.

The white half of Wembley went crazy.

"Typical," Bastian muttered. "They sleep. Then they kill."

Arsenal were rattled. They looked nervous.

Alex stood in the center circle. He felt the fear rising in his teammates.

He looked at Jude. Jude looked angry.

He looked at Mark. Mark looked lost.

Analyze, Alex told himself. Don't panic. Analyze.

Madrid was comfortable. They were sitting back now. Inviting pressure.

But... Alaba, their center back. He was limping slightly. Just a little.

And Kroos... he wasn't tracking back as fast.

They are managing their energy, Alex thought. They are saving it.

"High tempo!" Alex yelled. "Speed it up! Don't let them rest!"

Arsenal increased the pace.

Alex got the ball. He didn't look for the perfect pass. He played fast.

Pass. Move. Pass. Move.

He made Modric run. He made Kroos turn.

In the 40th minute, Alex saw it.

Alaba was slow to step up. He was protecting his leg.

Mark was making a run.

Alex hit the pass. A sharp, ground pass through the lines.

Mark got it. He turned.

He ran at Alaba.

Alaba backed off. He didn't want to sprint.

Mark drove into the box.

He shot.

Courtois saved it.

But the ball spun loose.

Antoine was there. The Magician.

He didn't shoot. He did a drag-back. The defender slid past.

Antoine tapped it in.

GOAL!

One one.

The red half of Wembley exploded.

Antoine ran to the corner. He did a magic trick with his hands. "Poof!" he yelled. "Goal!"

Halftime. One one.

"They are tired," Alex said in the locker room. "I saw it. Alaba is hurt. Kroos is breathing heavy."

"They are managing the game," Steve said. "They want to slow it down. They want penalties. They always win penalties."

"We won't let them slow down," Jude said. "We turn the volume up."

"Mark," Alex said. "Alaba can't run. Run at him. Every time. Make his leg fall off."

"I will be a surgeon," Mark grinned. "Dr. Speed."

Second half.

Arsenal came out like a storm. The Hurricane.

They ran. They pressed. They tackled.

Madrid was rocking. The Kings were looking... old.

But Madrid was dangerous. They lived for moments.

In the 70th minute, Vinicius broke away again.

He was one on one with Bastian.

The young Brazilian vs The old German.

Vinicius pushed the ball past him.

Bastian... didn't turn. He just... fell.

He slid. A massive, desperate slide tackle.

He took the ball. He took the man. He took a chunk of the pitch.

It was a perfect, brutal, beautiful tackle.

"NEIN!" Bastian roared at Vinicius, who was on the ground. "NOT TODAY!"

The crowd roared. It was as good as a goal.

The tackle lifted the team.

85th minute.

The game was stretched. Legs were cramping.

Alex was exhausted. But his brain was sharp.

He had the ball in midfield.

He saw the pattern.

Madrid was narrow. They were protecting the box.

But Mark... Mark was wide.

Alex didn't pass to Mark.

He passed to Jude.

"Drive!" Alex yelled.

Jude drove. He pulled the Madrid defense towards him. The magnet.

Then Jude passed back to Alex.

Alex was on the edge of the box.

Modric came out to close him down. The Master vs The Student.

Alex faked a shot. Modric didn't bite.

Alex faked a pass. Modric didn't bite.

Alex smiled.

He didn't shoot. He didn't pass.

He did the "Professor".

He stopped the ball dead.

He stood still.

Modric, confused by the lack of movement, took a step forward.

That was the mistake.

Alex flicked the ball up. A tiny chip. Over Modric's foot.

Alex ran around him.

He volleyed the ball while it was still in the air.

A pass. Not a shot.

A cross to the back post.

Mark was there. The Arrow.

He was unmarked.

He jumped. He wasn't a header expert.

But he remembered the training. The pidgeon. The rock.

He met the ball. With his forehead.

He headed it down.

It bounced.

It went past Courtois.

It hit the net.

GOAL.

GOAL.

GOAL.

2-1 Arsenal.

88th minute.

Wembley didn't scream. It shook. It quaked.

Mark ran. He ripped off his shirt. He swung it around his head.

He ran to Alex. He jumped into his arms.

"THE HEADER!" Mark screamed, crying. "THE DUCK FLIES! THE DUCK FLIES!"

Alex held him. Jude hugged them both. Antoine joined. Bastian hugged them all.

The Hurricane. The Diamond. The Team.

The final minutes were torture.

Madrid threw everyone forward. Even Courtois.

But the Shield held. The Rock held.

The whistle blew.

It was over.

Arsenal. Champions of Europe.

Alex fell to the ground. He looked at the sky.

He had done it.

He wasn't the reincarnation of a failed analyst anymore.

He was Alex Finch. The Professor. The Legend.

He felt a hand on his head.

It was Modric.

The legend was smiling. He handed Alex his shirt.

"You passed the exam, Professor," Modric said. "You are the master now."

Alex took the shirt.

He stood up.

He saw his mum and dad in the stands. They were crying. He saw Milo, wearing a suit made of... pure gold mirrors. He was blinding the cameras.

He saw his team. His brothers. Harry Kane handed him the trophy.

Alex lifted it.

The roar was endless.

He looked at Mark. Mark was wearing the plastic scepter and the crown.

"We did it, partner," Mark said.

"We did it!" Alex smiled.

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