"Professor," Bastian grunted. "You are early. This is good."

"Morning, Bastian," Alex said, his voice quiet.

This was his new life. For the last week, ever since the FA Cup win, Alex had been training full time with the first team. Antoine was still injured, and the manager, Steve, had decided that Alex was his new apprentice.

His locker, number 38, felt permanent now. His new, all black boots were sitting neatly at the bottom.

Harry, the team captain, walked in, whistling. "Morning, Professor! Morning, Bastian! What a beautiful day to kick a ball."

Harry ruffled Alexs hair as he walked past.

Alex was not a visitor anymore. He was not a mascot. He was... the team's kid. The Professor.

He was a sixteen year old who had a five year contract, a boot deal, and was sitting next to the captain of England.

His old life as an analyst felt like it was from a different century.

"Finch. Good. You are here," the manager, Steve, said, poking his head in. "Fulham, at home. A very hard game. A technical game. This is not mud, this is grass. I want your brain working today."

"Yes, coach," Alex said.

"Good. Now where is the other one?"

As if on cue, the locker room door opened.

Mark walked in.

He was wearing his new suit from Milo. It was a little too shiny. He was holding his new silver boots. He looked like he was going to a nightclub, not to training.

He also looked completely and totally terrified.

Bastian stopped stretching. He just looked up.

"What," Bastian grunted, "is this?"

"This is the package," Harry whispered to Bastian, trying very hard not to laugh.

"He is... Mark," Alex said, standing up. "My partner."

"I am not his partner!" Mark snapped immediately. "I am... I am the new striker. I am here to train."

The manager, Steve, walked over. He looked Mark up and down.

"Right. You are 'Speed'," Steve said. "I have heard all about you. You are here for one reason. You are fast. You are also, I am told, an idiot."

Mark went bright red. "I am not an idiot!"

"Prove it," Steve said, his voice flat. "You are here because Antoine is out, and I need options. You are my 'chaos' option. You are the last kid on the totem pole. Your locker is over there."

Steve pointed to a small, temporary locker... right by the laundry baskets.

"You do not talk," Steve said. "You do not complain. You just... run. And you listen to the Professor. He is smarter than you. Now get changed."

Mark looked like he was going to explode. He was the star. The hero. And he had just been put in the corner.

He stomped over to his tiny locker, his face like thunder.

Alex felt a little bad for him. Just a little.

On the pitch, the grass was perfect. It was like a green carpet.

Steve gathered them. "FulgHam are a passing team. We have to be faster. We have to be smarter. We are going to do a possession drill. Ten against ten. In a small space. I want one touch. I want you to think. I want you to know where the pass is going before you get the ball."

He split the teams.

Alex was on one team. Mark... was on the other.

This was not going to be good.

The drill started. It was the fastest game Alex had ever been in.

Zip. Zip. Zip.

The ball was a white blur. Alex was in heaven. This was his game. His analyst brain was working perfectly. He was not just playing. He was predicting.

He intercepted a pass. He played a one touch ball. He moved.

The superstars, Harry and the others, were doing it too. It was like a beautiful dance.

Mark... was not dancing.

Mark was a disaster.

He was on the other team, and he was just... running. He was chasing the ball. He was not thinking. He was just... fast and stupid.

"Speed!" Bastian yelled, as Mark ran right past him, chasing a pass that was not his. "Stop running! This is not a race! This is football! Think!"

Mark was getting angry. He was clumsy. He was trying too hard.

He lunged for a ball. He missed. He fell over.

The other team, Alexs team, scored.

"Mark!" Steve roared. "What was that? You are a striker! Not a headless chicken! You are out of position! You are a liability!"

Mark got up. His face was red. He was humiliated.

Alex saw it. His partner was failing. He was drowning.

The drill restarted. Alexs team had the ball.

Mark was just... standing. He was sulking. He was defeated.

Alex got the ball. He had space.

He looked at his own team. He should pass to Harry. He should pass to Bastian.

He did not.

He looked at Mark. "Mark! Move!"

Mark looked up, confused.

"The fake!" Alex yelled. "The fake fake!"

Mark's eyes went wide. He understood.

He was on the other team, but it did not matter. This was training.

Mark ran. He ran at his own defender. He faked right. He faked left. He exploded into space.

The defender was confused. Mark was not supposed to do that.

Alex saw the run.

He did not hesitate. He kicked the ball.

It was not a U18 pass. It was not a U21 pass.

It was a first team pass.

A 40 yard, curling, perfect, laser guided pass. It flew over the entire pitch.

It landed, perfectly, on Mark's new, shiny, silver boot.

The entire drill just... stopped.

All the other players, the superstars, just stood and watched.

Mark had the ball. He was all alone. He had just... switched teams?

He looked at Alex. He looked at the ball.

He smashed it. He hit it so hard it almost broke the net.

The pitch was silent.

"What... was that?" Harry, the captain, asked, looking very,

very confused.

Mark was breathing hard. He looked at Alex. He was not sulking anymore. He was alive.

Steve the manager was just... shaking his head.

He started to laugh. It was a strange, dry, barking laugh.

"Finch," Steve said, walking over. "You are on his team. You are supposed to be playing against him."

"He was open, coach," Alex said, trying not to smile. "It was a good pass."

"It was a good pass," Steve agreed. He looked at Mark. "And your run... was not idiotic. It was smart. You listened to him."

He blew his whistle. "Okay. New teams. Finch. Mark. You are on the same team. Bibs. Now. Go."

Alex and Mark looked at each other. A small, secret smile passed between them.

The "Package" was back.

For the rest of training, they were unstoppable.

Alex was the brain. He was the pivot. He did not have to score. He just had to find Mark.

Mark was the speed. He did not have to think. He just had to listen to Alex.

Alex would yell "Double cut!" and Mark would do it.

Alex would just nod, and Mark would do the "fake fake."

Alex would just look at a space, and Mark would run into it.

They were not just two players. They were one weapon.

They scored three goals.

Bastian was on the other team. He was not happy. He was getting very angry.

"This is not fair!" Bastian yelled at the manager. "The Professor and his pet. It is two against one!"

Steve just smiled. "Good. Now you know how Fulham will feel."

Training ended. Alex and Mark were exhausted. They were the last ones on the pitch, as always.

"That," Mark panted, his hands on his knees, "was fun. I like this. This is good."

"You were good, Mark," Alex said. "You were smart. You listened."

"Yeah, well," Mark said. "You were good too. Your passes... they are faster now."

"I have to be," Alex said.

"Professor. Speed," Steve called.

They jogged over. The manager was holding his clipboard.

"Okay," Steve said. "That was... very good. The partnership... it is a weapon. I like weapons."

He looked at Alex. "Professor. Fulham. At home. You are starting. I want you to be the brain. I want you to control the entire game. I want you to find the space."

Alex nodded. His heart was hammering. His first Premier League start.

"Yes, coach."

"Speed," Steve said.

"Coach?" Mark said, his voice shaking.

"You are on the bench. You are my weapon. I am bringing you on at sixty minutes. I do not care what the score is. You are coming on."

Mark looked like he was going to faint.

"I want you to run at them," Steve said. "I want you to use that... that fake fake move. I want... chaos. Can you give me chaos?"

Mark got a huge, dangerous grin on his face. "Coach," he said. "I am chaos."

"Good," Steve said. "Now go home. Rest. Do not stay up all night being idiots. You are professionals now. Act like it."

The manager walked away.

Alex and Mark just stood there.

Starting. On the bench. Together.

"Okay, Professor," Mark said, his voice deadly serious. "Do not mess this up. You have to play good, so I can come on and be the hero."

"We are a package, Mark," Alex laughed. "We will be heroes together."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But I am going to score," Mark said, racing him back to the locker room.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.