"You are shaking the bus" Antoine said, not looking up from his movie.

"I am not," Alex whispered.

"Your leg," Antoine said. "It is vibrating. You are vibrating like a small, nervous phone. Relax."

"How can you be so calm?" Alex asked. "It is Newcastle. It is... it is huge."

Antoine finally paused his movie. He looked at Alex. His eyes were not smiling. They were serious.

"It is huge," he agreed. "But I am a superstar. I am supposed to be here. You... you are the Professor. You are smart. You are also supposed to be here. The manager trusts you. I trust you. So... just be smart. Be stable. Be the shield. I will be the sword."

He put his headphones back in. "And try not to be sick on my new shoes."

Alex looked further down the bus.

Mark was sitting in the back row. He was not asleep. He was in his own shiny suit, listening to loud music. Alex could hear the thump thump of it from here. Mark was not nervous. He was a weapon, waiting to be fired. He looked... happy.

Alex took a deep breath. Antoine was right. He was supposed to be here. He was the brain.

He closed his eyes. He stopped thinking about the noise. He started thinking about the data. The Newcastle formation. Their weak spots.

His analyst brain took over. The fear faded. It was time to work.

St James Park was a wall of sound. Fifty thousand people, all in black and white, all screaming.

When Alex ran out onto the perfect grass, the noise was so loud it felt like wind.

He was in his all black boots. Antoine was next to him. Mark was on the bench, looking hungry.

The Newcastle players were... big. Their striker was a giant. Their captain was a hard man who looked like he ate rocks for breakfast.

"Professor!" Bastian roared at him. "Do not be a duck! Be a rock! Be boring!"

"Yes, Bastian!" Alex yelled back, but he could not even hear his own voice.

The manager, Steve, had given the team talk. "They are a wall. They are smart. They will not press you high, Alex. They will not be stupid. They will wait. They will let you have the ball. They will bore you. Do not let them. We are the Hurricane. We decide when the storm hits. Be patient. Then... be fast. Go."

The whistle blew.

The manager was right.

The first half was the most boring, frustrating forty five minutes of Alexs life.

Newcastle did not attack. They did not press.

They just... stood. They were in two perfect, solid, black and white lines. A giant wall of ten players.

Alex and Antoine, the 'Hurricane', were in the deep midfield.

And Newcastle just... let them.

They let Alex have the ball. They let Antoine have the ball.

Alex passed to Antoine. Zip. Antoine passed back to Alex. Zip. Alex passed to Bastian. Zip.

It was just... passing. In their own half.

It was a trap. Alexs analyst brain saw it immediately.

Newcastle did not want to be attacked. They were happy. They were letting Alex and Antoine have the_ball, seventy yards from goal, where they could not hurt anyone.

"This is boring!" Mark yelled from the bench.

Alex was frustrated. He tried a long pass. The Newcastle defender just... headed it away.

Antoine tried a magic dribble. He ran into three players and lost the ball.

They were a hurricane... with no wind.

"This is not working, Professor!" Antoine hissed at him. "They are too smart! They are not falling for our trick!"

"I know," Alex said. "They are just... waiting. They are waiting for us to make a mistake."

And then, they did.

Right before halftime. Alex tried a difficult pass. He tried to force it.

A Newcastle midfielder intercepted it.

One pass. Two passes.

Their giant striker got the ball. He smashed it.

GOAL.

One zero.

The stadium exploded. The noise was deafening.

Alex just stood there. It was his fault. His bad pass.

The whistle blew for halftime. They were losing.

The locker room was quiet. Steve, the manager, was not yelling. He was just... staring at Alex.

"Professor," Steve said, his voice dangerously calm. "Analyze."

Alex was sweating. "They... they are not pressing, coach. They are too smart. They are letting us have the ball. They are happy with us being deep. It is... it is a perfect defensive wall."

"Good," Steve said. "You see the problem. Now... what is the solution? Your Hurricane is not working."

Alex looked at Antoine. Antoine looked at Alex.

Antoine spoke first. "We cannot sit back. We cannot wait. If they will not come to us... we must go to them."

Alexs brain clicked. He saw it. "He is right. We are the eye of the storm. But we are sitting still. We have to move the storm. We have to... we have to invite them."

"Invite them?" Steve asked.

"We cannot play around their wall," Alex said, his voice getting stronger. He was an analyst now. He was in his world. "We have to run at their wall. We have to make them break. We have to force them to make a choice."

Steve looked at Antoine. "You want to run at them?"

Antoine just smiled. A beautiful, dangerous, superstar smile. "I am the sword, coach. Let me go cut them."

Steve grinned. "Good. Professor. You are still the shield. You win the ball. You be stable. But... you do not have to be boring anymore. If you see the pass, you play the pass. Magician. You have ten minutes. I want you to run. I want you to create chaos. Go."

The second half was a different game.

The whistle blew. Alex won the ball.

He did not pass sideways. He did not pass backwards.

He just... ran. He ran right at the Newcastle midfield.

A big defender stepped out. He was coming to smash Alex.

Alex was stable. He took the hit. He passed the ball to Antoine.

Antoine got the ball. He did not pass. He ran.

He ran right at the wall. He was a blur of magic flicks.

One player. Two players.

The wall was broken. The Newcastle players were confused. They were all chasing Antoine.

Antoine was trapped. Three players were on him.

He just... flicked the ball. Backwards.

To Alex.

Alex was all alone. He had space. The entire Newcastle team had been pulled out of position by the Magician.

Alexs analyst brain saw the whole pitch. It was an open, green field.

He saw his winger, making a run.

He did not hesitate.

He hit the pass. A forty yard, low, perfect, left footed pass.

The winger got the ball. He shot.

The keeper saved it.

But the crowd gasped. The Hurricane had arrived.

For the next fifteen minutes, it was chaos.

Alex was the shield, winning the ball, absorbing the hits.

Antoine was the sword, running, dribbling, creating panic.

They were beautiful. They were unstoppable.

In the sixty fifth minute, Alex won a tackle. He was stable. He was strong.

He gave the ball to Antoine.

Antoine ran. He beat one. He beat two.

He was tripped. A hard foul.

Free kick. Thirty yards out.

This was Antoines spot.

Alex just stood back and watched. This was the magic.

Antoine placed the ball. The stadium was booing.

He took a deep breath. He ran. He hit it.

It was a rocket. It curled. It spun.

It hit the top corner of the net.

GOAL.

One one.

Anfield was silent. Antoine just stood there, his arms out.

He was the Magician. He was the superstar.

Alex ran over. He was the first one there. He jumped on his heros back.

"YES! YES! THE SWORD!"

Antoine was laughing, carrying Alex. "The shield gave me the sword, Professor! Good work!"

The game was tied. But Arsenal was not done.

Seventy fifth minute. The Newcastle players were exhausted. They had been chasing Alex and Antoine all day.

The manager, Steve, looked down the bench.

He pointed.

"Speed. Go. It is time for chaos."

Mark looked like he was going to explode. He ripped off his bib. He ran on. He was replacing the other striker.

He ran straight to Alex.

"They are tired," Mark panted, his eyes wide. "They are dead. Find me. Just... find me."

"I will," Alex promised.

The game restarted.

The ball came to Alex. He was deep.

He saw Mark. Mark was on the shoulder of the last defender.

The defender looked... exhausted. He was bending over, trying to breathe.

Alex met Marks eyes.

The fake fake.

Mark ran. He faked right. The defender stumbled. He faked left. The defender almost fell over.

Mark just... exploded. He was gone.

The stadium saw it. Everyone saw it.

Alex saw it.

His ankle was fine. His body was strong. His mind was clear.

He did not just kick it. He launched it.

A sixty five yard missile. A perfect, curling, beautiful pass.

The ball flew over the entire Newcastle team.

It landed, perfectly, on Marks silver boot.

Mark did not stop. He did not think.

The keeper came out.

Mark just... smashed it. He hit it with all the anger, all the frustration, all the speed in his body.

The ball hit the net so hard it almost ripped.

Two one. Arsenal.

The game was over.

Mark did not run to the corner. He ran to Alex. He grabbed Alexs head in his hands.

"THE PACKAGE!" he screamed. "THE PACKAGE! BRAINS AND SPEED! YOU DID IT! THAT PASS!"

The whole team was on top of them. A pile of red and white.

The final whistle blew.

They had done it. They had beaten the wall.

The Hurricane had landed.

Alex was in the locker room. He was sitting next to Mark. They were both covered in mud. They were both holding bottles of champagne for being Man of the Match. Alex for controlling the game. Mark for scoring the winner.

"So," Mark said, his voice quiet. "My goal was better, right?"

"Your goal was good," Alex said. "But my pass... was prettier."

"Whatever, brain boy," Mark grinned.

Antoine came over. He was holding his own bottle. He had been Man of the Match too. The first time in history they had given out three.

"So," Antoine said. "The Shield. The Sword. And... the Arrow." He clapped Mark on the back.

"The Hurricane," he said, holding up his bottle.

Alex held up his bottle. Mark held up his.

"To the Hurricane," Alex said.

"To the Hurricane," his partners replied.

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