"I look like a waiter," he whispered to his reflection.

"You look like a winner," Jude said, walking in. Jude was wearing a suit that looked like it cost more than Alex's house. "Also, waiters don't wear watches that cost fifty thousand pounds."

Alex looked at his wrist. The watch from Steve. The one he got after his debut. It was still his favorite.

Mark burst into the room. He was wearing... a gold tuxedo.

"I TOLD MILO NO!" Alex shouted.

"HE SAID YES!" Mark yelled back, spinning around. "LOOK AT ME! I AM A TROPHY!"

"You look like a Ferrero Rocher," Jude laughed.

"I look delicious!" Mark insisted.

Antoine walked in. He was wearing a classic, elegant suit. He looked at Mark. He sighed.

"Speed," Antoine said. "You are... bright."

"Thank you!" Mark beamed.

"Come," Antoine said. "The car is waiting. The Ballon d'Or does not wait for golden chocolates."

The Theater du Chatelet was glowing. Red carpet. Cameras. Fans screaming.

"ALEX! ALEX! OVER HERE!"

Alex walked the carpet. He signed shirts. He smiled.

A reporter thrust a microphone in his face.

"Alex! You are the favorite! How does it feel?"

"It feels... improbable," Alex said. "Statistically, a midfielder doesn't usually win. It's usually a striker."

"But you are the Professor!" the reporter said. "You changed the game!"

Alex smiled. "I just passed the ball."

He walked into the theater.

The room was full of legends. Zidane. Ronaldo (Brazilian). Figo.

And the current stars. Haaland. Mbappe. Vinicius.

Mbappe saw Alex. He nodded. A respectful nod.

"Professor," Mbappe mouthed.

"Kylian," Alex nodded back.

They sat at their table. The Arsenal table.

Steve was there. He looked uncomfortable in a tuxedo. He kept checking his watch, probably wondering what time training was tomorrow.

The ceremony began.

Mark won the Kopa Trophy. For the best young player (under 21).

Mark ran onto the stage. He held the trophy up.

"I AM THE FASTEST!" Mark yelled into the microphone. "THANK YOU TO MY LEGS! AND TO THE PROFESSOR FOR THE PASSES!"

The crowd laughed. Mark was a star.

Then... the big one.

The Ballon d'Or.

David Beckham walked onto the stage to present it.

"The winner," Beckham said, opening the envelope.

The room went silent.

Alex's heart hammered.

"Is... Alex Finch."

The room exploded.

Alex stood up. He felt dizzy.

Jude hugged him. "Go on, Professor."

Mark was crying. "MY BEST FRIEND IS THE KING!"

Antoine kissed him on both cheeks. "Well done, my shield."

Alex walked to the stage. He shook Beckham's hand. He took the golden ball.

It was heavy. Heavier than the Champions League trophy.

He looked at the crowd. He saw his mum and dad. They were weeping.

He took the microphone.

"I... I am not a speechmaker," Alex said. "I am an analyst."

He looked at the trophy.

"This... this is data. It is proof. Proof that you don't have to be the biggest. You don't have to be the fastest."

He looked at Mark.

"Although being fast helps."

The crowd laughed.

"You just have to be... smart. You have to think. And you have to have a team that lets you think."

He looked at his table.

"This belongs to the Hurricane," Alex said. "To the Diamond. To the Vortex. To Arsenal."

He lifted the trophy.

Golden confetti rained down.

The after-party was legendary.

Milo was there. He was wearing a suit made of... LED lights. He was scrolling text across his chest: CLIENT OF THE YEAR.

"ALEX!" Milo screamed. "THE GOLDEN BALL! I AM SELLING REPLICAS! CHOCOLATE ONES! MARK WAS RIGHT!"

Alex laughed. He sat in a corner with his trophy.

Mark came over. He was holding his Kopa Trophy.

"Can I... can I hold it?" Mark asked.

Alex handed him the Ballon d'Or.

Mark held it. He stared at his reflection in the gold.

"It is heavy," Mark whispered.

"It is," Alex said.

"You are the best player in the world," Mark said, looking at Alex. "Does it feel different?"

Alex thought about it.

He thought about his old life. The regret. The 'what ifs'.

He thought about this life. The goals. The friends. The wins.

"No," Alex said. "I still have to do the dishes."

Mark laughed. "I will help you. I am fast at dishes."

"You will break them," Alex said.

The next morning. London.

Alex walked into the training ground. He was carrying the Ballon d'Or in a gym bag.

It was seven forty-five. Bastian early.

Bastian was there.

"Professor," Bastian grunted.

"Bastian."

"You won the shiny ball."

"I did."

"Good," Bastian said. "Now put it away. We play Liverpool on Saturday. They do not care about your shiny ball. They will kick you harder."

Alex smiled. "I know."

He put the trophy in his locker. Next to the white boots. Next to the Modric shirt.

He sat down.

He was Alex Finch.

He was eighteen.

He was the best player in the world.

But right now... he just wanted to play football.

The door opened. Mark ran in.

"I AM HERE!" Mark yelled. "THE GOLDEN ARROW!"

Alex laughed.

The lesson was over.

But the game... the game went on forever.

And the Professor was ready for the next problem.

**

The Ballon d'Or sat on Alex's bedside table.

It was heavier than he expected. It was made of brass plates, soldered together to form a ball, then dipped in gold.

Alex knew this because he had spent an hour researching the metallurgy of the trophy instead of sleeping.

It was Wednesday morning.

A regular Wednesday.

Except, it wasn't.

Today was the day the new Arsenal kit was launched.

And Milo, his agent, had been texting him since 4 AM.

"THE SHOOT! ALEX! THE SHOOT! YOU ARE THE FACE! THE BRAIN! THE ICON!"

Alex sighed. He pulled on his training gear. He put the Ballon d'Or in a sock drawer, underneath his winter socks. Just to be safe.

He arrived at the training ground.

It looked like a movie set.

There were lights, cameras, and people running around with clipboards.

Mark was already there. He was wearing the new kit. It was red, with gold sleeves.

"GOLD!" Mark screamed, pointing at his arms. "I AM MADE OF GOLD!"

"It suits you, Speed," Alex said.

"I know!" Mark spun around. "And look! My name is in gold! Everything is gold! Milo said it is because we are the 'Golden Generation'! Or maybe because gold is expensive! Either way, I look rich!"

Jude walked over. He looked like a superhero in the new kit.

"Morning, Professor," Jude said. "Ready for your close-up?"

"I prefer the wide angle," Alex muttered. "Less face, more pitch."

The photographer, a very intense man named Pierre, clapped his hands.

"Okay! The Hurricane! Front and center! Alex, hold the ball! Mark, look fast! Jude, look strong! Antoine... look French!"

"I can do French," Antoine said, raising an eyebrow.

They posed. They smiled. They looked tough.

Mark tried to balance the ball on his nose. He dropped it.

"Chaos!" Pierre shouted. "I love it! Keep the chaos!"

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