Alex had never been on a plane like this.

He was not on a normal flight with crying babies and bad food. He was on the official Arsenal team jet. It was all black leather seats and quiet, polite staff members asking him if he wanted orange juice. He was wearing his grey club suit. He looked out the tiny window at the clouds below. He was sixteen years old. He was a professional. He was flying to Newcastle.

"You look like you are about to be sick again, Professor."

Alex looked over. Antoine was sitting across from him, reading a very fancy looking magazine. He looked like he owned the plane.

"I am fine," Alex said, his voice a little tight. "It is just... high."

"It is football," Antoine smiled. "The higher we go, the better it is. You must get used to the view."

Alex nodded. He tried to look calm.

He looked down the aisle. Mark was not calm. He was in his own suit, his silver boots in his lap. He was talking. Very fast. To Harry, the captain.

"And then," Mark was saying, his hands moving, "I do the 'fake fake', and bam, I am gone. The defender is dead. Right? And then Alex, the Professor, he hits the pass. It is unstoppable. Right, Harry?"

Harry, the captain, was just nodding, a polite, tired smile on his face. "Yes, Mark. Unstoppable. That is great. Maybe... you can visualize it quietly now?"

Mark just beamed. He did not get the hint. "And then I score. I am the Arrow, you see. I am the lightning."

Alex just shook his head and went back to his notes. His analyst brain was working. Newcastle was not a joke. They were a wall. This was a test.

St James Park was a sea of black and white. Fifty thousand people who all, it seemed, hated Alex personally.

When he ran out to warm up, the noise was a physical wall. It was louder than Anfield.

"THEY ARE VERY LOUD!" Mark yelled, right next to Alex. He was on the bench today, but he was warming up like he was the star.

"JUST WARM UP!" Bastian roared at both of them.

The locker room was small. It was grey. It smelled like old paint.

Steve, the manager, stood in the middle. His face was like stone.

"This is not a game for kids," he said, his voice low and serious. "This is a game for men. They are a wall. They are the best defense in the league. They do not make mistakes."

He looked at Alex and Antoine.

"They will not fall for our tricks. They will not get angry. They will just... wait. They will wait for us to make the mistake."

He pointed at Alex. "Professor. You are the Shield. You are the eye of the storm. You must be perfect. No bad passes. No risks. Not yet."

He pointed at Antoine. "Magician. You are the Sword. You are the bait. You must be patient. You must pull them. You must make them... bored."

"Bore them?" Antoine asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Steve said. "Bore them to death. Pass. Pass. Pass. Make them angry. Make them frustrated. Make them... stupid. Wait for the moment. Then, we release the Hurricane. Until then... you are a gentle breeze. Go."

Alex and Antoine looked at each other. A gentle breeze. This was a new plan.

The whistle blew.

The noise was incredible.

And the manager was right. Newcastle was a wall.

Alex got the ball. He was the shield. He was deep.

He looked up. No one was pressing him. The Newcastle players were just... standing. In two, perfect, black and white lines.

They were waiting.

"Okay," Alex whispered to himself. "Be boring."

He passed the ball. A simple, five yard pass. To Antoine.

Antoine got the ball. He passed it back. Zip.

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

For ten minutes, Arsenal just... passed the ball. In their own half.

The Newcastle crowd started to whistle. They were getting angry. They were bored.

"THIS IS NOT FOOTBALL!" a man yelled.

Alex just kept passing. Zip. Zip. Zip.

He was the analyst. He was the pivot. He was just... controlling the data.

The Newcastle players started to get lazy. They were just watching.

Then, in the fifteenth minute, it happened.

The big Newcastle midfielder, their star player, got impatient. He got bored of watching.

He left his line. He started to sprint at Alex. He was coming to smash him.

Alex saw him coming. His analyst brain screamed. Trap.

Alex passed the ball. One touch. To Antoine.

The midfielder was out of position. The wall was broken.

Antoine was not boring anymore. He was the sword.

He spun, a magic, beautiful turn. He was past one.

He ran.

The Newcastle defense panicked. They started to run at Antoine.

They had forgotten... everyone else.

Alex, his job as the shield done, sprinted forward. He was not a pivot. He was an attacker.

Antoine saw him. He was being tackled by two men.

He did not even look. He just flicked the ball, a tiny, perfect, heel pass.

Right into Alexs path.

Alex was at the edge of the box. He had space.

The old Alex would have panicked. He would have passed.

The new Alex... he was a Premier League player.

He did not even think. He hit it.

He hit it with his new, strong, left foot. A low, hard, perfect shot.

The keeper did not move.

The ball hit the back of the net.

GOAL.

One zero.

The entire stadium went silent.

Alex just... stopped. He had... he had scored? His first goal. For the first team.

He did not know what to do.

He just stood there.

Then, Antoine was there. He jumped on Alexs back.

"THE PROFESSOR! THE SHIELD! HE IS A SWORD TOO! YES!"

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

Alex was at the bottom of the pile, his face pressed into the grass.

He was sixteen. He had just scored his first goal. At St James Park.

He was so happy he thought he was going to cry.

Halftime. The locker room was buzzing.

"That," Steve said, and he was actually smiling, "was perfect. Boring. Boring. Boring. Then... a knife. Beautiful. Now they are angry. Now they will attack. Now... the game is ours."

The second half, Newcastle was furious. They were not a wall anymore. They were a storm. They were attacking.

This was the game Alex was born to play.

He was the shield. He was the rock.

They ran at him. He was stable. He won the ball.

He was the analyst. He saw the space.

He passed to Antoine.

He passed to Harry.

He was the brain. He was controlling the entire game.

The Newcastle fans were not booing him anymore. They were just... quiet. They were watching this sixteen year old kid, in his all black boots, completely run the game.

The seventieth minute. Steve looked down the bench.

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

Mark looked like he had been shot out of a cannon. He was a blur of silver boots.

He was replacing the other striker.

He ran onto the pitch. He did not go to Alex. He went straight to the last defender. He was hungry.

The Newcastle team was tired. They were exhausted from chasing Alex and Antoine.

The first ball came.

Alex won it. He was deep.

He looked up.

He saw Mark. Mark was not running straight. He was on the shoulder.

He made eye contact with Alex.

He just... pointed. To the corner.

Alex did not even wait. He did not think. He just... trusted.

He hit the pass. The sixty yard 'Hurricane' pass.

It flew. It was perfect.

The defender was too slow. He was tired.

Mark was on it. He was one on one.

The keeper came out.

Mark looked at him.

He did not do the fake fake. He did not do the double cut.

He did not even chip him.

He just... smashed it. He hit it so hard, with so much power, the keeper did not even move.

The ball hit the top corner of the net.

THWACK.

Two zero. Game over.

Mark did not scream. He did not run to Alex.

He ran straight to the manager. He stood in front of Steve, his arms out.

"CHAOS!" he yelled. "I AM CHAOS!"

Steve just shook his head, but he was laughing.

Alex just stood on the halfway line. He was panting. He was exhausted.

The "Package". The "Hurricane".

It had worked. Again.

The final whistle blew. Two zero.

Alex was named Man of the Match. The newspapers were not going to be ableto ignore him now.

He was walking off the pitch. He was bruised. He was tired. He was happy.

Antoine put his arm around him. "Good work, my shield. You... you were a pretty good sword today, too. That goal... it was beautiful."

"You drew the defenders," Alex said. "You made the space."

"Yes," Antoine grinned. "We are a good team, Professor. A very good team."

Alex was in the locker room. He was sitting on the bench. He was just... smiling.

His phone buzzed. It was Milo.

"TWO GOALS. THE HURRICANE. THE BRAND. THIS IS GOLD. THE BOOT COMPANY IS SENDING YOU A TRUCK. A TRUCK FULL OF BOOTS. DO NOT GET HURT."

Alex just laughed.

His life was crazy. And he would not change it for the world.

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