Alexs dad did not drive him to the stadium this time.

This time, Alex rode on the big, quiet, first team bus. He was wearing his official club suit, the one Milo had sent. It was dark grey and fit perfectly. He looked, he thought, a little less like a schoolboy and a little more like... a professional.

He sat by himself, near the back. Bastian was in the front, asleep. Harry, the captain, was reading a book. The bus was silent. It was the calm before the storm.

Alex looked out the window. He was nervous. His heart was a small drum, beating a fast rhythm against his ribs.

This was not a fifteen minute appearance as a mystery kid.

This was his first start. At the Emirates. Against a tough, smart, Premier League team. The manager, Steve, was trusting him. He was starting a sixteen year old in place of a world superstar.

He looked across the aisle.

Mark was sitting there, also in a new suit. Mark looked... terrible. He was pale. He was staring straight ahead. He was vibrating like a phone on silent.

"You okay?" Alex whispered.

Mark jumped. "What? Yes! I am fine! I am... I am chaos. I am a weapon. I am... I am going to be sick."

Alex almost laughed. "You are on the bench, Mark. You are fine. You just have to watch."

"It is worse!" Mark hissed. "I just have to sit there! And wait! What if you... what if you are all terrible? What if you are losing four zero before I even get on? You have to be good, Alex! You have to be perfect, so I can come on and be the hero!"

"Right," Alex said, shaking his head. "No pressure."

"Good," Mark said, and went back to staring.

Alex just smiled. He was glad Mark was here. Even a terrified, half sick Mark was better than no Mark at all.

The Emirates was beautiful. When it was empty, it felt like a giant, quiet, red church.

Alex walked into the locker room. His home.

He saw his locker. Number 38.

And there, hanging on the hook, was his jersey. FINCH.

It was not a spare. It was not a "just in case". It was the starting one.

He touched the fabric. It was real.

"Morning, Professor."

Alex turned. Harry, the captain, was smiling at him. "Ready for this? Your first start. It is always special."

"I am... nervous," Alex admitted.

"Good," Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Nervous is good. It means you care. Just do what you did in training. Be the brain. Be the pivot. We will do the rest."

"Do not let them kick you," Bastian grunted, walking past. "Fulham are smart. They are not Lincoln. But they will still try to kick you. Be stable. Do not be a duck."

Alex nodded. "Be stable. Be smart. Got it."

The manager, Steve, came in. His face was serious.

"Fulham are a good team," Steve said. "They pass. They move. They will try to control the ball. We will not let them."

He looked right at Alex.

"Professor. You are my brain today. You are the pivot. You set the tempo. You decide if we are fast, or if we are slow. I trust you. Do not make me look stupid."

"I will not, coach," Alex said, his voice firm.

"And Mark," Steve said.

Mark, who was trying to look invisible on the bench, snapped to attention. "Yes, coach?"

"Sixty minutes. You know the job. Be ready."

"Yes, coach!"

"Good. Now lets go show them why we are Arsenal."

Alex walked out of the tunnel. The noise... the noise was different.

When he came on as a sub, it was a big cheer.

This... this was a roar. Sixty thousand people, all singing. The noise hit him in the chest.

He was in the starting lineup photo, squeezed between Harry and Bastian. He felt so small.

He looked at his parents in the stands. His dad was just... pointing at him. His mum was taking a hundred pictures.

The whistle blew.

The game started.

The speed was incredible. Fulham were fast. And they were smart.

Their midfielders were closing him down.

Alex got his first touch. A Fulham player smashed into his back.

Alex did not go down. He used his core. He was stable. He passed the ball, one touch. To Harry.

He got it back. He passed it again. To Bastian. He was doing it. He was playing. He was not playing safe. He was not passing backwards. He was the pivot. He was the brain. He saw the Fulham defender was too far to the left. He saw the space. He did not shout. He did not point. He just... played the pass.

A fast, low, twenty yard pass, right into the empty space.

The Arsenal winger ran onto it. He got a cross in.

The crowd roared their approval.

Alex was not scared. He was... he was home.

His analyst brain was in heaven. This was not a physical fight like Lincoln. This was a chess match. And Alex was the smartest player on the board.

He saw patterns. He saw movements.

He sent a 40 yard pass to the left back. He played a tiny, one two pass with his midfielder.

He was not just surviving. He was... controlling the game.

The Fulham players were getting frustrated. They could not get near him. Every time they thought they had him, the ball was already gone.

"He is everywhere!" he heard the Fulham captain yell.

Alex just smiled.

Halftime. Zero zero.

The locker room was calm.

"Good, Professor," Steve said. "You are making them run. They are getting tired. Keep doing it. They will break."

He looked at Mark. "Ten minutes, Speed. Get ready."

Mark just nodded, his face pale.

The second half started. It was the same. A fast, smart, technical game.

Alex was still the pivot. He was running. His new, stable body was working.

The clock hit fifty nine minutes.

Alex looked over. He saw Mark, standing on the sideline. He was ready.

The number went up. Mark was coming on.

He was replacing the starting winger.

Mark ran onto the pitch. He ran straight to Alex.

"Okay," Mark panted, his eyes wide and wild. "It is fast. They look tired. What is the plan?"

"It is boring," Alex said, jogging on the spot. "They are too organized. We need... chaos."

"Chaos," Mark grinned. "I am chaos."

"Just... run," Alex said. "Run those smart runs. I will find you."

"Good."

The game restarted.

The energy changed.

Alex got the ball. He was not just a pivot anymore. He was a weapon.

He looked up. He saw Mark. He was a blur of silver.

Alex hit the pass. The 40 yard magic pass.

Mark was on it. He was one on one.

He shot!

The Fulham keeper made a brilliant save. He pushed it wide.

"Unlucky!" Alex yelled.

"My fault!" Mark yelled back, running back. "My run was too straight! He read it! Do it again!"

Alex was stunned. Mark was... analyzing. He was learning.

The 75th minute. It was still zero zero. Fulham was defending. They were a wall.

Alex got the ball. He was deep in his own half. He saw Mark. Mark was surrounded by two defenders.

Mark looked at Alex. He did not say anything. He just... touched his head.

Brains.

Alex understood. The fake fake.

Mark ran. He did not run straight. He ran at the defenders. He faked right. They moved. He planted his foot, faking the double cut left.

The defenders bought it. They shifted their weight.

And Mark... he just exploded. He ran right past them, into the space he had created.

The defenders were lost. They were tangled.

Alex had not waited. He had seen it. His analyst brain and his partners brain were working as one.

He had already kicked the ball.

It was not a long, looping pass. It was a low, fast, drilling pass. A pass that split the world in two.

It was perfect.

The ball hit the grass. It skidded.

Mark ran onto it. He did not even break his stride.

The keeper came out. He was huge.

Mark was all alone. This was his moment.

The old Mark would have smashed it.

The new Mark... the one who passed to Alex... he was smarter.

He did not shoot.

He saw the keeper charging. He just... stopped the ball.

The keeper could not stop. He slid, helpless, right past Mark.

Mark was all alone. With an open goal.

He didnot panic. He did not rush.

He just... tapped the ball. It rolled, almost gently, into the empty net.

GOAL.

One zero.

The Emirates... exploded.

Alex had never heard a sound like it. It was not just a roar. It was joy.

He was running. He didnot know where.

He was just... running.

He was picked up.

Mark had run all the way back. He did not run to the corner. He ran to Alex.

He grabbed his partner. He lifted him into the air.

"WE DID IT!" Mark was screaming in his ear. "THE PACKAGE! THE BRAINS AND THE SPEED! WE DID IT!"

Alex was just laughing. He was on top of the world.

The whole team piled on. Bastian. Harry. Everyone.

They were a mountain of happy, sweaty, Arsenal players.

The final whistle blew. One zero.

Alex had played the full ninety minutes. He had won. Mark had scored the winner.

Alex was walking off the pitch. He was so tired he could barely move.

He was named Man of the Match. Again.

He was in the locker room, holding the big bottle of champagne. He was covered in mud and grass.

Harry came over. "Professor. I have no words. That pass... and your brain... you ran the whole show. And you." He pointed at Mark, who was being interviewed, his silver boots all over the TV.

"Your partnership. That was... special."

Steve, the manager, walked in. The room went quiet.

He was not smiling. But he was not angry.

He just looked at Alex. He looked at Mark.

"Good," he said. "Good brains. Good speed. Good chaos. You did your job."

He looked at the rest of the team. "Fulham was good. But we were better."

He looked back at Alex.

"Professor. You are not a 'backup' anymore. Antoine is a great player. But he is going to have a real fight on his hands when he comes back."

Alexs heart stopped.

The manager... he was saying...

"You are not a kid," Steve said. "You are a first team player. You have earned it."

Alex just stood there. He looked at Mark. Mark was grinning, his new, shiny agent grin.

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