Alex sat in his chemistry class on Monday morning.

He was staring at a Bunsen burner. The blue flame flickered.

"Exothermic reactions," Mr. White, the teacher, droned on. "Energy is released. Heat. Light. Sound."

Alex rested his chin on his hand.

Football is an exothermic reaction, he thought. You put in energy. You get noise. You get heat.

"Mr. Finch?"

Alex snapped his head up. "Yes, sir?"

"You are staring at the flame like it is a Champions League trophy," Mr. White said. "Please tell me the formula for combustion."

Alex blinked. His brain was still in Liverpool, replaying the pass to Jude.

"Uh... Fuel plus Oxygen equals... Goal?" Alex guessed.

The class laughed.

"Carbon dioxide and water, Mr. Finch," the teacher sighed. "Though I suppose a goal produces a similar amount of gas from the commentators."

School finished. Alex walked out.

It was raining. Again. London rain was different from Manchester rain. It was polite, but persistent.

Mark was waiting.

He was not in a car. He was not on a scooter.

He was standing next to... a Rickshaw. A bicycle carriage.

Mark was in the driver's seat (the bicycle part). He was wearing a yellow cycling jersey and tight shorts.

"GET IN, CAPTAIN!" Mark screamed, ringing a little bell. Ding ding.

"Mark," Alex said, staring at the rickshaw. "You are going to pedal me to training?"

"I am working on my quads!" Mark yelled, slapping his thighs. "Look at them! They are steel! Get in the carriage, Your Majesty!"

Alex sighed. He climbed into the back. It had a little roof. It was dry.

"Mush!" Alex said.

Mark pedaled. He pedaled hard.

They moved at about three miles per hour.

"I am fast!" Mark panted, his face turning red. "I am the engine!"

Cars were honking behind them. A grandmother on a mobility scooter overtook them.

"She is doping!" Mark accused the grandmother. "She has a motor!"

"Just pedal, Speed," Alex laughed.

They arrived at the training ground twenty minutes late.

Steve, the manager, was waiting. He looked at the rickshaw. He looked at Mark's sweaty face.

"Nice bike," Steve said dryly. "You look like a tourist who got lost."

"I am a machine, coach!" Mark wheezed, falling off the bike. "My legs... they are burning."

"Good," Steve said. "Because today... we run."

The team gathered in the video room.

Harry Kane was there. He was on crutches. He looked sad, but he was smiling.

"Morning, skip," Jude said, high-fiving him.

"Morning, lads," Harry said. "I saw the Liverpool game. The Ghost Train. It was beautiful."

He looked at Alex.

"The armband looks good on you, Professor."

"It is tight," Alex said. "It cuts off my circulation."

"That is the pressure," Harry winked.

Steve stood at the front.

"Liverpool was a big win," Steve said. "But the league is not over. We have a game on Wednesday. A catch-up game."

He clicked the remote.

The screen showed a team in white.

"Leeds United," Steve said.

The team groaned.

Leeds were not a top team. But they were annoying. They ran. They pressed. They kicked. They were like a swarm of angry bees.

"They are fighting relegation," Steve said. "They are desperate. A desperate team is a dangerous team."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are the captain now. You set the tone. If we play slow... they will eat us. If we play soft... they will break us."

"We will be hard," Alex said.

"And Mark," Steve said. "You are the striker. The main man. Leeds play a 'man-marking' system. Their defenders will follow you to the toilet if you go there."

Mark's eyes widened. "That is an invasion of privacy!"

"It is football," Steve said. "Use it. Drag them out of position. Make space for Jude and Antoine."

Wednesday night. The Emirates Stadium.

It was cold. The wind was swirling.

Alex stood in the tunnel. He adjusted the captain's armband. It was tight.

The Leeds players looked wired. They were jumping, shouting, hitting their chests.

Their captain, Liam Cooper, looked at Alex.

"You are a baby captain," Cooper sneered. "Where is Kane? Did he get scared?"

Alex looked at him. He felt a flash of anger. Not for himself, but for Harry.

"He is resting," Alex said calmly. "He doesn't need to play to beat you."

Cooper laughed. "We will see, schoolboy."

They walked out.

The roar. North London Forever.

Alex felt the responsibility. He wasn't just playing for himself anymore. He was playing for the badge. For Harry. For the fans.

The whistle blew.

Leeds came out like maniacs.

They didn't care about the ball. They cared about the man.

Every time an Arsenal player touched the ball, a Leeds player hit them.

In the 5th minute, Jude got the ball. Two Leeds players smashed into him.

Jude didn't fall. He shrugged them off like flies.

"Is that all?" Jude roared.

But it was messy. The game had no rhythm. It was stop, start, foul, throw-in.

Alex tried to control the tempo. But he couldn't find space. Cooper was marking him tightly.

"I am your shadow tonight, Professor!" Cooper yelled in his ear.

"You are breathing on my neck," Alex said. "Please use a mint."

Cooper shoved him.

The referee did nothing. "Play on!"

It was frustrating.

Mark was struggling. He tried to run, but the Leeds defenders were pulling his shirt, stepping on his toes.

"Ref! He is touching me!" Mark screamed.

"It is a contact sport, Speed!" the defender yelled.

Halftime. Zero zero.

It was an ugly, scrap of a game.

The locker room was tense.

"They are just kicking us," Antoine complained, checking his legs for bruises. "I am an artist, not a punching bag."

"We have to fight back," Jude said, slamming his fist into his palm. "We have to hit them."

"No," Alex said.

The room went quiet.

Alex stood up. He was the Captain.

"If we fight them... we become them," Alex said. "We become messy. We become stupid. We get red cards."

He looked at the team.

"We are Arsenal. We play football. If they want to kick... let them kick the air."

"How?" Mark asked.

"One touch," Alex said. "We play so fast they cannot catch us. If you take two touches... you get hit. If you take one touch... they hit the ghost of where you were."

He looked at Steve.

"Coach. We need to widen the pitch. Make them run."

Steve nodded. "Good. Wingers... stay on the chalk. Stretch them."

Second half.

Arsenal changed.

They stopped fighting. They started playing.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

One touch passing.

Leeds couldn't get close. They were running, chasing, kicking at shadows.

Alex was the conductor. He didn't hold the ball. He moved it instantly.

He received a pass from Bastian. Cooper came flying in to tackle.

Alex was already gone. He had flicked the ball to Jude and moved into space.

Cooper tackled the air. He looked foolish.

60th minute.

The Leeds players were getting tired. Chasing the ball is harder than kicking people.

Alex saw the fatigue.

He got the ball in the center circle.

He saw Mark.

Mark was wide. On the touchline.

The Leeds defender was panting, hands on his knees.

Alex hit the pass.

A diagonal laser.

Mark controlled it. He looked at the defender.

"Catch me," Mark whispered.

He sprinted.

The defender tried. But his legs were heavy.

Mark flew past him. The Arrow.

He cut inside.

He saw Antoine.

Antoine was in the box.

Mark crossed.

It was a perfect ball.

Antoine didn't smash it. He didn't head it.

He did a volley. A side-footed, controlled volley.

The ball floated into the corner.

GOAL!

One zero. Arsenal.

Antoine ran to the corner. He pretended to conduct an orchestra.

"MUSIC!" Antoine yelled. "WE MAKE MUSIC!"

Alex ran over. He hugged Antoine.

"Beautiful music," Alex said.

Leeds were broken. Their plan had failed.

They tried to attack, but they were exhausted.

Arsenal kept the ball. They played "Keep Away".

The crowd cheered every pass. "Ole! Ole! Ole!"

85th minute.

Alex got the ball on the edge of the box.

Cooper was there. The Leeds captain. He looked angry. He looked defeated.

He lunged at Alex. A desperate, final tackle.

Alex saw it coming.

He didn't pass.

He did the "Ronaldo Chop". A move he had learned from the video games.

He chopped the ball behind his leg.

Cooper slid past him. He ended up on his face in the grass.

Alex was clear.

He was twenty yards out.

"SHOOT!" the crowd screamed.

Alex shot.

He hit it with his laces. Pure technique.

The ball didn't spin. It didn't curve.

It flew straight. Like a cannonball.

It hit the top corner.

GOAL!

Two zero.

The stadium erupted.

Alex didn't run. He stood there. He looked at the crowd.

He touched the armband.

He pointed to the camera.

For Harry.

Jude ran over and lifted him up. "THE CAPTAIN!" Jude roared. "OH CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN!"

Mark joined the hug. "YOU CHOPPED HIM! YOU CHOPPED HIM LIKE A TREE!"

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Leeds 0.

A professional, captain's performance.

Alex walked off the pitch. He shook hands with Cooper.

Cooper looked at him. He didn't sneer. He nodded.

"Good game, kid," Cooper said. "You are tough."

"Thanks," Alex said.

Milo was waiting in the tunnel.

He was wearing a suit made of... playing cards.

"THE ACE!" Milo screamed. "YOU ARE THE ACE IN THE PACK! ALEX! THE CHOP! I AM SELLING AXES! 'THE FINCH CHOPPER'!"

"No axes, Milo," Alex laughed. "That is dangerous."

"LUMBERJACKS NEED BRANDS TOO!" Milo yelled.

Alex walked into the locker room.

He sat down.

He took off the armband. He looked at it.

It was just a piece of fabric. But it meant everything.

Harry Kane Facetimed him.

"I saw the goal," Harry said. He was smiling. "And the celebration. Thanks, Professor."

"I kept it warm for you," Alex said.

"It looks good on you," Harry said. "Keep wearing it. Until I am back."

Alex smiled.

He packed his bag.

Mark was sitting next to him, eating a protein bar.

"We won," Mark said. "And I didn't get kicked too much."

"You played smart, Speed," Alex said. "You stayed wide."

"I like wide," Mark said. "There is more air."

They walked out to the car park.

The rickshaw was gone.

A normal car was waiting. A nice, sensible sedan.

"My dad's car," Mark said. "He said the rickshaw was a 'traffic hazard'."

"Your dad is a wise man," Alex said, getting in.

He looked out the window as they drove through London.

Top of the league. Champions League Semi-Finals waiting.

He was the Captain of Arsenal.

He was seventeen.

And he had a chemistry test tomorrow.

"Combustion," Alex whispered to himself. "Fuel plus Oxygen."

He looked at Mark, who was singing along to the radio.

"Plus a spark," Alex added.

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